


Call It True

by abrighteryellow



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Asexuality Spectrum, Blow Jobs, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Making Out, There's a scene that could be considered lightly coercive magic, Witch Louis Tomlinson, Witches, Writer Harry, but it's pretty tame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2019-12-26 21:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 48,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18290369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrighteryellow/pseuds/abrighteryellow
Summary: Conscious of the boy’s eyes on him, Harry peruses the menu above, feeling far too distracted to actually choose. “Is there anything you’d, um, recommend?”“Everything’s good, to be honest. Any flavors you like in particular?”“I’m not picky. I’ll try pretty much anything.”“Well, we’ll get along fine then.” Harry’s pulse picks up as Louis leans in, conspiratorially. “Tell you what. I’ll whip you up something, and if you don’t like it, it’s on the house.”“That…sounds great.”“Good. What’s your name? For the order, like,” Louis says, eyes quickly sweeping down to the register in front of him.“’m Harry.”“Alright, Harry. You wait right here while I work my magic, yeah?”With dreams of being a successful novelist, Harry’s been working so hard that he almost doesn’t notice the smoothie shop that just opened down the street. But he can’t miss the mysterious, irresistible boy who works there, nor the strange but entirely positive effect his drinks seem to have. Harry needs to know what’s going on and he wants to get close to Louis, though not necessarily in that order.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so, so psyched to be a part of Big Bang this year. Thank you, mods, for all you do!
> 
> I live in the shadow of my beautiful, generous friends and betas [crinkle-eyed-boo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KimmieRocks/pseuds/crinkle-eyed-boo), [disgruntledkittenface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disgruntledkittenface/pseuds/disgruntledkittenface), and [yeah_alright](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeah_alright/pseuds/yeah_alright), who helped me organize this one-sentence idea into an actual narrative. I love them very much and any remaining errors are mine.
> 
> I'm BEYOND honored to have art by [clevernessoflarry](https://clevernessoflarry.tumblr.com/) in this piece. Courtney, you're a legend. I know technology tried to stop us, but IT COULDN'T. 
> 
> Warnings: There are no deaths in the fic, but Jay has passed and it's very much something Louis is still coping with. And like I said in the tags, there's one little moment that edges up against the idea of coercive magic, but in a humorous and (in my opinion) harmless way. (But if that's not your thing, it's cool!)
> 
> Title is from the Coldplay song "Magic," because they still slap.

Whenever he writes, Harry starts with the ending.

He likes to know where he’s going, even if he’s not quite sure how he’s going to get there, and his strategy hasn’t changed since he started composing short stories for class assignments and fell in love with his own imagination. The publishing industry has yet to do the same, though Harry hasn’t given up on the idea of actually making a living from fiction.

That’s not where the money is, though. Or, at least, it’s only there for a very few. Fortunately, there are many types of writing that _do_ come with a salary, never mind that they’re aggressively boring. Harry’d gotten himself an introduction through a uni professor to a business that provides manuals to various technology companies, and quickly established himself as the most reliable freelancer on their list. That same professor also doled out the most helpful advice Harry had received in his entire course of study. To make a living as a writer, you have to be, at minimum, any two of these three things: Punctual, easy to work with, or very, very good. Harry isn’t the most motivated manual writer in the world, he’d wager, but on his best days, he’ll praise himself for checking all three boxes. On his worst days, well, he wonders if he’s carved out a career for himself without meaning to, and that he’ll be translating some programmer’s convoluted directions into legible English for the rest of his life.

That’s why he tries to keep the ending – or rather, the ending of _this_ chapter – in mind at all times. Harry isn’t a manual writer. He’s a novelist writing manuals to pay the bills, and that won’t last forever.

There’s a pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel now, thanks to Harry’s indomitable work ethic. By burning the candle at both ends, he’d managed to turn his creative writing thesis into his first novel. The story – one about a formative but doomed first love – was sewn into his soul at this point, and he just couldn’t stomach the idea of sending it out into the cruel publishing world to be rejected by assistant after assistant. So, on the advice of a fairly successful alumni he’d met at a mixer, Harry self-published the thing.

Some of the old-school professors he kept in touch with tried to argue against it, insisting to Harry that he was throwing away a chance to make a splash right out of the gate. But it was the right decision for him, and no amount of pressure could make him second guess it. _Ever Since New York_ debuted on Amazon about six months ago, with a cover designed by his uni mate Zayn, who only accepted a nice bottle of red for his troubles. Instantly downloaded by Harry’s family and friends, the novel eventually spread a little outside of that circle, according to the sales figures. It wasn’t setting the world on fire, by any means, but Harry estimated that it found its way into the hands of a few people who weren’t bound to by it by love, relation, or friendship, and that was encouraging enough.

Which is why, despite his dreams of a rustic cottage out in Scotland that he’ll only use for writing, Harry wasn’t expecting to receive a cold email from a literary agent this Tuesday morning.

_Dear Mr. Styles:_

_I came across your self-published novel,_ Ever Since New York _, and read it in one sitting. You’re green – and as the notes say that this is your first, I’m not discouraged or surprised – but I think you have a strong voice and tremendous potential._

_I represent authors and have had great success with new talent such as yourself. If you’re interested in meeting with me, we can see if an arrangement between us might be a fit._

_Would you be amenable to coffee sometime this week? I see that you’re also in London._

_Liam Payne_

_Familiar Literary Agency_

“Do you hear that, Sadie?” Harry coos to the black and grey Shorthair cat perched on his desk. “This nice man thinks I have potential.”

Sadie regards him imperiously, as if searching for any sign of it. Used to her feigned standoffishness, Harry scratches the cat under her chin, and smiles in satisfaction as she shuts her eyes in pleasure and lifts her head to accommodate him.

The coffee maker beeps, and Harry shuffles the few short feet from his “workspace” (a glorified breakfast table) to his galley kitchen. His chipped University of Birmingham Creative Writing mug sits in the drying rack, next to the same plate Harry will use for his daily slice of avocado toast.

He’d thought pursuing this career and being free from an office would mean varied days, frequent changes in scenery, and new and exciting friends. But so far, it’s proven to be a life of strict routine. Hesitant to venture away from a reliable WiFi connection and available outlets for too long, Harry isn’t one of those cafe laptop regulars. He’s more confident in his own space – a tiny kingdom he’s laid out just as he likes it.

He wakes between 8 and 8:30, feeds Sadie, then makes his morning pot of coffee. While it brews, he checks his email and mentally composes the day’s to-do list, paid jobs obviously coming first. After an hour of work, he’ll make his breakfast, then continue on until about noon.

Harry’s one indulgence is a midday workout – usually a jog around his neighborhood. He gets to avoid the early morning and evening rush, plus it breaks up the monotony, gets his lungs pounding and blood flowing, and reminds him what outside looks like. By the time he’s back at home, showered, and sitting in front of his laptop again, he feels fresher than he did when he woke up.

He usually skips lunch, opting for tea and whatever snacks are in the cupboard. Late afternoon, he touches base with his managing editor, who rarely has any notes or complaints. On a good day, Harry has time to open up and tinker with the document he’ll one day label with the title of his second novel. For now, it’s a jumble of ideas and images, and to call it an outline would be quite generous indeed.

He might meet Zayn and Nick for a pint or a film in the evening – if he’s feeling ambitious. On the very rare occasion that Harry has a date, it’s usually because one of them stole his phone and started swiping in spite of his loud protestations. Otherwise, the day ends in another episode of _Mad Men_ and takeaway, the respectable hour that he turns off the light and feels Sadie settle in directly above his head ensures that Harry can do it all again the next day, exactly so.

Well, not _exactly_ so. Sometimes he puts sesame seeds on his avocado toast.

The thought of a 9-to-5 existence, of making stilted conversation at a shared coffee station, of gathering in a conference room to sing a sullen “Happy Birthday” to someone who steals his leftovers doesn’t appeal to Harry in the least. But his current set-up doesn’t include many opportunities for human-to-human interaction, hence his many one-sided conversations with Sadie, who often simultaneously bathes herself.

His sister will tell him – and _has_ told him, until she’s about blue in the face – that this is no life for a 24-year-old. And maybe it isn’t for forever, but for now, Harry’s dreams come first, and that means nose-to-the-grindstone, no distractions, and a daily routine fit for an aspiring nun.

And, according to this email, it’s beginning to pay off.

Padding back to his table with his coffee, Harry begins dictating a response to Sadie.

“Dear Mr. Payne...No. _Cheers,_ Mr. Payne. I’m so pleased that you enjoyed my book, and I would very much like to meet you. My schedule is flexible, so I can make myself available at your convenience. Got that, baby girl?”

Sadie leaps gracefully off the table and retreats to her scratching post.

“Impossible to find good help these days,” Harry mutters, then settles in to type the reply himself.

*****

Liam’s cc’ed assistant jumps in to schedule their coffee meeting for that Thursday. In the two days between, Harry puts the finishing touches on the manual to a set of Bluetooth headphones, schedules Sadie’s annual check-up, and sends off a letter to his mother, snail mail being a tradition they’d established long ago when Harry went away to stay with his grandparents for a few weeks in the summer and that he enjoys as much, if not more, than she does.

His productivity can’t block the nerves that come calling when Harry wakes the morning he’s meant to meet with Mr. Payne. (Liam, rather. He’d insisted.) When it comes to presenting himself in person, Harry’s rather out of practice. And though he tries to remind himself that Liam responded to his writing first, he still worries about making the kind of first impression that won’t make the agent feel as though he’s made a massive mistake.

His schedule already shot by the 11:30 am appointment, Harry decides to shake it up all together. He skips his morning coffee and copy-editing, choosing instead to strap on his athletic kit and trainers and go sweat out some of his self-doubt. Stepping out onto his tree-lined street, he selects his favorite girl group playlist and then sets off.

His feet keep time with Little Mix’s “Wings” as Harry jogs down the street, starting on his regular loop. He loves the rhythm of jogging, because it gets him out of his situation but not out of his head, and many plot holes have been filled over the course of a nice, steady run. Today, though, there’s no problem to be solved, just an anxious personality to overcome. Try as he might to focus on his breathing and the feel of the ground beneath his feet, all Harry can think about is the chance in front of him, and all the ways in which he could screw it up.

It’s not that he’s an antisocial person. Most of his primary teachers told his parents he was a “class distraction,” as a matter of fact. But living inside of his stories (and even the logic of his manuals) has left Harry out-of-step with the real world and a little lacking (he fears, at least) in conversational skills.

What if can’t make small talk, and Liam thinks he’s some sort of hermit? Or – worse – what if he word vomits all over the man and doesn’t let him get a word in edgewise?

As he comes to the last stretch of his three-mile loop, Harry resolves to speak when spoken to, focus on the book, and let Liam set the tone, thereby avoiding disaster. _Hopefully_ avoiding disaster.

Harry slows his legs to a brisk walk, turning down the volume on his phone. Out of the corner of his eyes, he senses a bright, pool blue that doesn’t match his memory of this part of his street. He slows down even more and instinctively turns his head to find a brand new storefront, all gleaming blue and white, and _definitely_ not there yesterday. Perplexed, Harry stops completely, distractedly pulling his ankle up behind him for a quadricep stretch.

“Mystic Smoothies & Juices,” he whispers to himself, reading the sign above him. “Since when?”

He inches closer and peeks inside the door, expecting to see sawdust and workmen and fixtures on the floor. But, to his shock, he finds a fully operational smoothie shop, shelves lined with bottles and powders, a menu hanging over the register, and employees waiting to serve customers. Though he can see movement behind him, the only shop clerk Harry has a clear view of is standing at the register in a smart, white apron, caramel fringe swept across his forehead, an impressive collection of tattoos crawling up his arms and disappearing into his equally white t-shirt.

The only possible conclusion is that Harry really _must_ get out more often. Become a citizen of the world, or at least _his_ world. At least this block, because he’s managed to ignore the weeks of construction that made a smoothie shop out of...whatever this address _used_ to be.

Details. Writers should be good with them. Better than this, at the bare minimum.

Harry glances around him, perhaps hoping to find someone else who wasn’t expecting to find this exactly here, then back up at the sign, and then finally, back into the window.

The man is looking at him.

The man at the counter is looking at Harry with a question in his expression, and Harry can’t shake the feeling that it’s a deeper one than, “Well, are you coming in or not?”

And, well, he did skip breakfast.

As if on cue, Harry’s stomach gurgles wantonly, and a freshly blended smoothie suddenly sounds like just the thing.

Still caught in the man’s curious gaze, Harry moves towards the door to the shop. A small, satisfied smile is his reward. Harry would very much like to see it from a shorter distance.

A bell tinkles above his head as Harry pushes the door open, and a divine, fruity scent – a combination of countless good, earthy things – welcomes him. Pulling out his earbuds, he walks across the blue tile floor, hoping his trainers won’t scuff its spotless sheen, and takes note of the various wellness products on the shelves, all in minimalist packaging that suggests they’re out of his price range. Suddenly very aware of where he’s looking, Harry doesn’t meet the eyes of the man at the counter again until he’s right in front of him. When it’s appropriate to look at the person you’re about to purchase something from.

He misjudges the distance to the counter, and stubs his toe against the bottom of it with a hollow thud.

“Oops,” Harry says, taking one step backward.

“Hi,” the man says, a warm laugh in his voice. “Alright?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry about that,” Harry answers, sheepishly. “Always running into things. And this. It’s a whole new store to get used to.”

“Yeah, it is. Hopefully you will, though.”

Louis. His name tag says “Louis.” His smile says that Harry’s known him for a million years.

“First time, then?” Louis continues.

“It’s the strangest thing. I only noticed that you were even here – the store, I mean – today. I live right down the street. You’d think I’d notice what’s going on in my own neighborhood.”

“Ah, bet you’re busy. It’s amazing the things we miss when we’re concentrating really hard on something.” That’s it, Harry realizes. Louis’s eyes are the same pool blue as the shop’s sign. Just...deeper. “Anyway, it was a quick job. Feels like we only just started.”

“Is that right?” Harry says, unnecessarily.

“Yeah, it does, yeah.” Louis nods, his eyes crinkling pleasantly. “So you live nearby? Do you work nearby too?”

“Um, yeah. Just a few doors down. I work from home, that’s why I’m around in the middle of the day.”

“Doesn’t look like you’ve been working,” Louis teases. “Unless you’re a trainer or summat?”

Harry looks down at his running tights, cut-off sweatshorts, and sweaty hoodie. “Ah, no. I’m a writer? I make my own schedule mostly. Went for a run first thing today to shake out some nerves. I’ve got a really important meeting later, and to be honest, I’m bricking it.”

“Like a job interview?”

“Sort of. This agent read something of mine, and he might want to represent me.”

“That’s amazing! Good news then.”

“It’s a big opportunity. If I don’t cock it up.”

“Well, you already know he likes your writing, right? Seems to me that’s the most important thing.”

Harry hums in agreement, wishing he could actually internalize that logic.

“So, can I get you something?”

“God, yeah.” Harry shakes his head. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Louis says, easily. “Good to get to know the neighbors. Just thought you might be hungry.”

Conscious of the boy’s eyes on him, Harry peruses the menu above, feeling far too distracted to actually choose. “Is there anything you’d, um, recommend?”

“Everything’s good, to be honest. Any flavors you like in particular?”

“I’m not picky. I’ll try pretty much anything.”

“Well, we’ll get along fine then.” Harry’s pulse picks up as Louis leans in, conspiratorially. “Tell you what. I’ll whip you up something, and if you don’t like it, it’s on the house.”

“That...sounds great.”

“Good. What’s your name? For the order, like,” Louis says, eyes quickly sweeping down to the register in front of him.

“'m Harry.”

“Alright, Harry. You wait right here while I work my magic, yeah?”

“Yeah, alright.” Harry tries not to study him too closely as a grinning Louis backs away from the counter, and eventually turns his back on him, compiling colorful ingredients into an economy-sized blender, and mouthing the recipe to himself as he does.

Right. Harry needs to just take the bloody smoothie, pay for it, and leave. He’s already abused the poor guy’s retail-mandated friendliness, and unloaded his very silly First World problems onto him. Zayn, Nick, and Gemma are right. He’s starved for contact. So desperate for attention that he turns every service worker he meets into an unwilling therapist. This has to stop.

But then Louis is walking back towards him with a fuschia-colored concoction and a prideful glint in his eye, and Harry wants to tell him all sorts of personal things. Embarrassing things.

“Be honest,” Louis says, tilting his chin down seriously. “I can take it.”

Harry takes the cup from him, noting with flattered amusement that his name is written on it in biro, even though there isn’t another customer in the store.

“Cheers.”

He can’t place the flavor combination on the first sip, except to say that it’s exactly what he was craving but couldn’t vocalize. Louis watches him with pleasure as Harry screws his face up in pure enjoyment, getting another taste straight away.

“It’s good, then?”

“Louis, this isn’t _good,_ ” he practically groans. “This is heaven.”

A pink blush appears on Louis’s cheeks, and it takes Harry far too long to realize his mistake.

“Um, I’m sorry, I just read your name tag when we were talking. Was that really weird? It was really weird. Like I said, I really don’t get out much.”

“Harry, it’s alright, really,” Louis says sincerely, adjusting his name tag with long, slender fingers. “I know your name, and you know mine. We _are_ neighbors. I hope we’ll be friendly.”

“Yes, yeah. Of course we will.” Harry longs for the earth to swallow him whole. “What do I owe you for this?”

“Let’s call it a sample, how about that? Just make sure you come back.”

“Thank you, really. And thank you for listening to all of that.”

“Nah, come on. None of that. I’m very pleased to meet you. You’ll let me know how the meeting went next time, yeah?”

“I will,” Harry promises, raising his cup in Louis’s direction.

“Enjoy the rest of your day, then, Harry. We’ll see you soon I hope.”

“Yeah. See you.”

*****

Harry wasn’t exaggerating for Louis’s sake. The smoothie is quite simply the best one he’s ever tasted. It’s sweet, tangy, and smooth, and so nourishing that Harry imagines he can feel his body becoming stronger, more efficient, as it courses through him. He downs it so quickly, he’s mildly shocked that he doesn’t get a single brain freeze.

He’ll be back. And he’d be back even if Louis weren’t the loveliest boy he’s ever seen. Even if he humiliates himself again, another one of these would be worth it.

The smoothie is gone too soon for Harry’s liking, but there’s no time to mourn. He sets to getting ready for his meeting, stripping off his sweaty jogging clothes and running the tap until it’s hot. It’s a longer shower than he usually takes, and the building’s water heater is miniscule, so the stream is cool by the time he’s finished. Harry swipes the condensation from the mirror with his towel, then selects one of the posh moisturizers Gemma bought him for his last birthday, which he still has plenty of, because he lied when he told her he uses it everyday.

It’s not until he starts to pick out his clothes that Harry notices that he’s suspiciously calm.

Usually, his anxiety increases the closer he gets to the event he’s anticipating. But his palms are dry, his mind is clear, and he’s not playing his usual futile game of “Worst Case Scenario.”

Odd. Good, but odd.

Amazing what a friendly face can do, he thinks. His mates are right. It’s better for him to be around people. People like Louis, maybe, who are kind and welcoming and look edible in white t-shirts.

Sighing at himself and his tendency to over-romanticize certain situations, Harry slings his bag over his shoulder and sets back out into the London morning.

*****

Harry is five minutes early to the coffee shop, and Liam Payne still beats him. A strapping bloke with brown hair and a well-tended slight beard stands up when Harry walks in, no doubt recognizing him from the headshots Zayn had laconically strong-armed Harry into taking and then putting on his personal website.

He’d heard some agents were sharks, but this one looks more like a teddy bear.

“Harry Styles,” Liam says, warmly. “Liam Payne. Pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Harry says, shaking his offered hand.

“Please.” Liam gestures towards the chair opposite him. “Thanks for making yourself available so quickly.”

“Not a problem.” Harry hangs his bag on the back of the chair and sits. “I was very excited to get your email. You really liked my book?”

“I really did, yeah. Your former professor, Dr. Roberts? We go back a few years, and he lets me know whenever he has something that might interest me.”

“Dr. Roberts? He didn’t even tell me he was sending it around.”

“I think he probably didn’t want to get your hopes up in case it didn’t go anywhere. But fortunately, he was right about you. I’ve read a lot of debut novels, and few that are as sure-handed as yours. You’re a confident writer, Harry. It shows in every sentence.”

“That’s...extremely nice to hear. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Would you like a coffee?”

“Oh, yes, thanks. A latte please?” The waiter standing next to their table takes it down, along Liam’s double espresso order.

“So, this may be a stupid question, but I’m asking it anyway,” Liam continues, once the waiter is away. “Are you actually looking for representation?”

“I haven’t been looking actively yet, but I know that’s what I need to get to the next step.”

“It’s definitely helpful. I’d give you that advice whether you were going with me or with someone else. Unsolicited manuscripts usually get tossed straight in the bin. So doing it on your own is an uphill battle.”

“I put enough of my own writing in the bin,” Harry says with a smirk. Liam’s answering smile is encouraging. It seems like they could have an easy working relationship. Harry likes him.

“Don’t we all?”

“Oh, are you a writer too?”

“I think a lot of us are, or used to be,” Liam says. “Literary agents I mean. I went to school for fiction writing.”

“So, why, if you don’t mind me asking…?”

“Didn’t I make it?” Liam finishes, with an uncomplicated grin. “I love it, and I still do it for fun, but it didn’t take long for me to realize I was better on the business end of things. I never had the faith in myself as a writer that you do, so finding a niche where I was comfortable just made sense. And now I get to read great things, and make sure other people get to see them.”

“Not a bad calling,” Harry says. The waiter puts their coffees down in front of them, plus a wooden tray with cream and sugar.

“No, it’s not. Not to talk myself up too much, but I was the youngest full-fledged agent at my old company, and started my own agency earlier this year. And Harry, you may have other, bigger agencies that come and court you. With your talent, I wouldn’t be surprised. But they can’t offer the personal attention that Familiar can. They would have had an assistant or a junior agent take this meeting, for example.”

Liam pauses to take a sip of his espresso, then continues.

“We don’t have to decide anything right now. I just wanted to talk face-to-face, so you can get to know me, and I can get to know you. So my next question for you, Harry, is what do you want?”

“Big picture?”

“Big picture, small picture. Whatever pops into your head.”

Harry considers the question, trying to translate his vague, grand daydreams into one solid answer. Finally, he speaks.

“I want to make my living as a novelist, not just do that in my spare time. I want to quit all my freelance jobs, and build my life around my fiction, instead of just shoving it into the corners. I want to have the time to have the kind of experiences that will make my writing richer. And I want that writing to get to people who’ll appreciate it.”

Liam sits back in his chair and crosses his ankle over his knee.

“I can work with that.”


	2. Chapter 2

The craving hits as soon as Harry wakes up the next day. It’s there as Sadie kneads her paws into his face, demanding her breakfast. It yells a little louder when he starts spooning his coffee grounds into a fresh filter, just like he always does.

He’s usually ready to drink directly from the pot by the time the strong smell of the brew hits his nostrils. But Harry’s body doesn’t seem to _want_ coffee right now.

There’s a first time for everything, he supposes.

He forces it down anyway, to defend against the psychosomatic hankering that’s taken up residence in his gut.

Still, all he can think about is how good it would be to have something cold and refreshing in his hand instead, and wonder about how many other surprising flavor combinations lie in wait downstairs for him to try. The bitter liquid isn’t cutting it, not with his craving for its complete opposite so intense that it’s almost painful.

Harry went one step further than just the social sciences base requirement at uni, figuring understanding people would only help him in his writing. And so he knows that this isn’t just his stomach talking.

Louis had asked, hadn’t he? He said that he wanted to hear how Harry’s meeting went. He’d wished him well, and sounded like he sincerely cared whether Harry succeeded or failed.

On one side, Harry has the sense that Louis is a genuine person. A compassionate person. On the other, Harry’s also aware that he already has a full-fledged crush on his new neighbor, and so, perhaps ought not to indulge his first instincts when it comes to him. He will not parade into the smoothie shop during the morning rush and give another play-by-play of his day to a person he _just met_ and who has no way to escape.

He’ll wait _at least_ till lunch.

Trying for the moment to put away thoughts of Louis licking his teeth with a sharp, pink tongue, Harry gets on with his morning. He’d already sent a thank you email over to Liam, who of course responded promptly. This morning, it’s another missive from his assistant, sending over a sample contract for Harry look over. He replies with his gratitude, and a promise to be back in touch in a few days. Then, he forwards the email to his stepfather, a much-appreciated source of free legal advice. Next, he texts his mother with a full report, the post not quick enough to carry this particular news.

There’s a new assignment in the queue for his day job, so Harry spends most of the next two hours sifting through the materials he’s been given, and organizing them in the meticulous manner that’s become second nature to him. It’s specific, painstaking work, though it doesn’t require much original thought, so it keeps his complicated hunger pangs at bay. (Like the coffee, the avocado toast didn’t hit the spot like it usually does.) He doesn’t allow himself to picture Louis again until he’s tying his trainers, ready to set out on his daily jog. A jog that will, from this point on, end at that very same counter, every day. Until, that is, he’s banned for being too obvious about his views on the delicate jut of Louis’s collarbone and his curiosity about the tattoo that graces it.

Harry doesn’t care much about timing himself, but he uses an app to track his runs, mostly out of – you guessed it – habit. It’s purely coincidence that he shaves almost a full minute off of his usual this time. He wasn’t even consciously trying to.

The timer and his body temperature are inarguable proof though, that Harry was in a bit of a hurry to get his afternoon snack. Cursing his inability to locate any chill, he dabs as much sweat off of his brow as he can with the sleeve of his hoodie, the ducks to the side of the store, away from the windows, to quickly check his reflection in his front-facing camera.

Belatedly, it occurs to Harry that Louis might not even be in there. There’s every chance that he doesn’t have a shift today. Lots of people must work at the shop. But he has the strangest feeling that Louis would have told him if that were the case. Unless Harry’s projecting onto him, and he’s the only one of the two who felt like their conversation had sailed past small talk into something more intimate and friendly. There’s only one way to find out.

Taking a deep breath, Harry comes around the corner and enters the shop, trying to settle his face into something bland and non-committal. This time, he’s not the only patron there.

A woman and a man stand at the counter, together blocking Harry’s view of the person helping them. Harry rocks back on his heels and then forward again, fluttering his lips nervously. He doesn’t waste his time looking at the menu, hoping that Louis is there and that he’ll make him something else delicious. He glances around the store, taking in the details – the small seating area, the bouquets of colorful straws in silver pails on the counter near the door – that got lost when the shine of the boy he was talking to eclipsed everything else.

It’ll be fine, if Louis isn’t there. It’s not like he _lives_ in the place. And it couldn’t be _too_ long until Harry would run into him again. Odds are slim to none that he quit sometime in the last 24 hours, though none would be preferred.

“Hullo, again,” a friendly voice shakes Harry from his controlled spiral, and tears his eyes away from the bulletin board already advertising a few local meditation workshops and yoga classes.

The couple is heading to a table with their drinks, and Louis is waiting at the register, beaming away at him. This time, his megawatt smile is aimed at Harry from underneath a cap bearing the store’s starburst logo, which makes Louis look even more like a Lost Boy on holiday from Neverland than he did yesterday. Harry unconsciously raises his wrist to his forehead, wiping his brow again.

“Hi,” he manages, taking a few (careful) steps forward. “Thought I’d actually try to buy something this time.”

“Fair play.”

“I really did appreciate that though. Yesterday? I hope it wasn’t a problem.”

Louis raises his hand, palm facing Harry, in a “nonsense” gesture. “Never. I get my share of freebies to give out. And look, here you are: A paying customer. Hooked already?”

_Yes. Desperately, yes._

“This neighborhood is mostly crap food, have you noticed?” Harry hedges, neck hot. “Nice to finally have a place close by that isn’t quite so...deep-fried.”

“We do aim to please.” Louis peers around Harry, who swivels his head to follow his eyes. There’s no one waiting behind him, which seems to prompt Louis’s next sentence.

“How did it go yesterday?” he asks, lowering his voice to a whisper. “That meeting?”

As if Harry could have forgotten what they’d talked about. How sad is his life that he has to make a purchase to have the conversation he’s been waiting to have since he shook Liam’s hand and left the coffee shop the previous afternoon?

“Oh,” Harry endeavors (quite poorly, he’s sure) to act as though he _did_ forget, or at least that his triumph hasn’t been on the tip of his tongue this whole time. “That, yeah. It went really well, actually. Seemed like a nice guy, and we got on.”

“So you’ve got an agent now?” Louis raises an eyebrow, and one corner of his mouth quirks up too. Harry could almost guess he were invested.

“Seems like it. Or I will soon. We’re starting to look at the paperwork, but yeah, seems like a good fit.”

“How can you tell? I don’t know anything about it, so I’m curious. How do you decide?”

“Well, I haven’t had any other offers yet, first of all.” Louis shrugs in understanding, and Harry continues. “But, I dunno. I still get the feeling that Liam is supposed to be it. He didn’t talk down to me. He listened to what I had to say, and it didn’t seem like he was making any big promises that he probably couldn’t keep. Just seemed...honest.”

“Intuition, right? It’s important to listen to it, I always say. Though most people have the bad habit of talking themselves out of it.”

“First impressions can’t always be right though, can they?” Harry posits. “Like, there’s still that little voice in the back of my head saying, ‘This guy is going to screw you over.’”

Louis plants the heels of his hands into the counter and rocks forward, smirking. “Ah yes, _that_ voice. He pipes up every time I go on a first date.”

“Right,” Harry blurts out, the very idea stirring something inside him. “Right...So what’s the difference between that voice and intuition? And how do I know which is which?”

“Well,” Louis says, slowly and thoughtfully. “I believe we all have a sixth sense – that gut feeling that tries to talk to you when something’s really wrong or something’s really right. And I reckon we all know deep down when we’re really getting signals and when we’re just trying to get out of something that’s risky or scary.”

“Does my order come with a fortune cookie too?” Harry says, a sly smile spreading across his face.

“Oi! You’re in a shop called _Mystic Smoothies,”_ Louis pouts, and that’s endearing too. “We have bee pollen on the menu. How dare you disrespect my New Age wisdom.”

Harry realizes that he’s resting his body against the counter too, instinctively trying to match Louis’s height. He refuses to lose track of his eyes, which wouldn’t be such a problem if it weren’t for the cap. They’re going to have a love/hate relationship, he and that thing.

“Never.” There’s no teasing in it.

“Good,” Louis says, holding Harry’s gaze right back. “Good.”

Just then, another customer arrives, the ding of the bell above the door prompting Louis into action.

“Well, cheers, lad,” he says, standing up straighter and folding his hands on the plasticized surface. “When you’re a big, famous writer, you can bring us a signed photo for the wall.”

“Oh, do you have a photo wall?” Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t noticed it, with his mind on other things.

“Sadly, no.” Louis huffs a laugh. “You can start it though, how’s that?”

“It’s a deal.”

“Good. So what can I get you?”

Harry ought to be a normal person. Choose for himself. But one of his inner voices wants him to trust Louis instead. Maybe it’s even the brave one.

“Is it annoying if I ask you to surprise me?”

Louis adjusts the brim of the cap, pulling it up a fraction of an inch and back down again, his toned bicep contracting with the movement. “I was hoping you would say that.”

*****

Harry’d had no good excuse to hang around the place while Louis took care of his newly arrived customers, so he’d downed the wheatgrass shot that Louis had thrown in (“Yeah, I know,” he said when he saw Harry wince at the taste. “I have a feeling you’ll come around on it though.”), and got on his way.

Today’s smoothie is a pale yellow, with a citrusy kick that cleanses the dirt flavor of the wheatgrass shot from his palate in his first pull.

“Something sunny,” Louis said when he handed it to Harry. “Things are looking up, right?”

So Harry ambles home, grinning like an idiot – half lost in thought, half hyper aware of everything around him. Like the far away sound of a clarinet drifting out of a second floor window, and the way the shocks in his trainers put a bounce into his step. Why hasn’t he ever noticed the way the light filters through the silver birch tree in front of the bank before? He really does love this little street.

His drink is so flavorful that he can pick out each individual ingredient – a bright note of tangerine, a hint of ginger, a comforting vanilla yogurt – but once again, it’s the way that those ingredients complement each other that has him stifling moans of pleasure, for the sake of everyone else on the sidewalk.

It’s nearly done by the time he gets to his front door, leaving Harry obnoxiously sucking up the last precious bits of it, without any shame.

The sensory experience isn’t all there is to it; Harry also wants to hold onto the way he feels when he’s in Louis’s presence – like he’s interesting and worth knowing. It’s flattering, that Louis likes creating things for him, doesn’t move onto the next customer until he sees how Harry reacts, whether he likes it. And after this visit, he’s fairly certain that Louis enjoys talking to him too, at the very least. He’d looked almost disappointed when he had to move on and serve someone else.

It’s been a long time, is the thing, since Harry had a real, honest-to-god crush. He can appreciate people in passing. He’s not immune to attractive men, by any means. But he rarely gets hung up on anyone, which irritates Zayn and Nick endlessly. What business it is of theirs, he’s not sure.

He is sure, though. Sometimes they look at him with what Harry identifies as pity, particularly when they’re deep in the throes of some conversation about their own romantic lives. They think that he’s missing something, deliberately. That Harry’s purposely closing himself off to ever being in a relationship. The truth is that he normally can’t be bothered with it. It baffles Harry that some people even find dating _fun_ , and not the bottomless pit of self-doubt, despair, and boredom that it actually is. Besides, who says that everyone _has_ to do this? Why is “putting yourself out there” a requirement of being single? Harry’s always said to himself that it’ll happen when it happens.

It might be happening right now. He feels woefully unprepared.

He sits down to his laptop and an email from his stepdad, confirming that the Familiar contract is standard, giving him the okay to enter into the deal. Not willing to waste another second, he opens the document in a signature application and electronically signs it, then sends it back to Liam and his assistant with an enthusiastic – but professional – note, expressing his gratitude and saying how pleased he is to be working with them.

He leans back in his chair, which invites Sadie to jump into his waiting lap. Rubbing her silky ears, Harry lets himself bask in the moment. At just two years out of school, he has an agent who believes in him, and his whole career ahead. He chose one of the toughest fields there is, worked almost around the clock, and managed to make a name for himself. His family and friends supported him, but he, Harry Styles, did this on his own.

It feels good. It feels really, properly good. And for once, he doesn’t want to talk himself out of that.

*****

“I think met somebody.”

It has the desired effect. Zayn and Nick turn away from the bar to look at Harry in comical, slow-motion unison.

“Like a human man?” Zayn asks.

“If you’re talking about a fictional character, I’m dumping this onto your boots,” Nick says, gesturing to his very full beer. “I won’t even feel badly about it.”

“He’s a real person, as far as I can tell,” Harry clarifies, taking his beer from Zayn’s left hand.

“See? And yet, when I downloaded Grindr on your phone, you shouted at me.”

“Christ, Grimmy, I didn’t meet him on _Grindr_ . _”_

“Don’t act too good for gay dating apps, Harry,” Zayn says in his thick Bradford drawl. “It’s unattractive.”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles.

“Anyway,” Nick says, too loudly, as they settle in at their favorite booth. “Who is this mystery man? I demand to know which London bachelor managed to battle his way into the heart of Harry Styles. He _is_ a bachelor, right?”

“I think so? He mentioned that he doesn’t like going on first dates, last time we spoke.”

“Casually dropping into conversation that he’s single,” Zayn assesses. “Nice.”

Harry frowns in thought, pooching out his bottom lip. It hadn’t even occurred to him, but that’s exactly what Louis did. He _is_ out of practice.

“Where did you meet him? What’s his name? Do you have any photos? When are you seeing him next?” Zayn pushes Nick’s beer closer to him, silently putting a stop to the flood of questions.

“His name is Louis. He works at this new smoothie shop that opened on my street. I don’t have any pictures. I don’t even know his last name. And I guess I’m seeing him the next time I go into the store.”

Zayn and Nick just stare at him. Harry watches as the excitement drains out of their faces.

“So it isn’t like, a thing, yet,” Harry forges on. “But he’s really sweet, and really beautiful. Nobody should look that good in an apron.”

He hesitates, trying to find the words.

“I don’t know what it is, there’s just something about him. Something special. And it seems like...I mean it’s possible, he might like me too.”

Zayn rallies, reaching a hand across the table and placing it on Harry’s.

“That’s great, man. He sounds really nice. Are you gonna ask him out?”

“Um, I dunno. I mean, I _want_ to.”

“So, do it,” Nick jumps in. “You know you’re gorgeous, right? I still think you should consider some kind of hair product, but you do turn a head.”

“Thanks.” Harry looks bashfully down at the table. “I just don’t want it to be weird, you know? He might just be really friendly. So what if I make a move and he’s not interested? Either he says yes anyway because he feels pressured, and that’s awful, or he says no, and I can never show my face in there again. And those smoothies are _really_ good.”

Nick glares at him. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“You’re interested in a guy for the first time in, what, centuries? And you’re going to sit on it because you don’t want to lose your _juice bar_?”

“Smoothies _and_ juices,” Harry mutters.

“What-bloody-ever. I know that you _are_ thinking seriously about asking this guy on a date, and do you know how I know that?”

Harry just looks at him.

“Because you _told_ us about him. You want us to convince you.”

“I–”

“Look,” Zayn interjects. “I get what you’re saying, about putting him in an awkward position. You’re a really thoughtful person, Harry. You’re worried that the power dynamic is off, because you’re a customer.”

Harry nods, appreciatively.

“But it all hangs in how you do it and how you react if he _does_ say no. I know you. You’re not a creep. You would never try to make anybody feel guilty for turning you down. But it sounds like this Louis and you get on, and he thinks so too.”

“And you’re both adults!” Nick interrupts. “You know that you want to see where this goes, and you owe it to yourself to at least find out how he feels about it.”

“You’re right, you’re right, I know you’re right.”

“We always are,” Nick says, throwing an arm around Zayn’s shoulders.

It’s a pain in the arse, to have two best mates who are so easily pleased with themselves. Harry loves them anyway, and not only because he’s always gotten the sense that they’re puffing themselves up for each other’s benefit.

“And humble, as well.”

Nick fires a rolled up napkin at him, then asks for Louis’s physical description. In detail.

*****

Harry leaves the pub warm, fuzzy, and resolved to eventually invite Louis on a date. How and when, he has no idea. But the irony of it all is that, in order to appear as non-threatening as possible, he decides that he has to stay away from him for a couple of days.

It’s not too difficult, since it’s the weekend. But Louis is on his mind almost constantly, from his regular Saturday afternoon writing workshop with his faintly but unfailingly judgmental peers in their wireframe glasses and high-waisted jeans, to his weekly Sunday brunch with Gemma. Even so, he doesn’t bring up his crush to his sister, though she’s so perceptive, he wouldn’t be surprised if she could smell it on him. As it is, she leaves lots of space in the conversation, as if she’s waiting for Harry to make a big announcement.

“See you next week,” he says when he hugs her goodbye. “Maybe you’ll be ready to talk,” she responds, then squeezes his arm. If she hadn’t decided to go into teaching, she could have had a nice little career at M15.

He spends Sunday night making pasta for himself, trying to keep a curious Sadie away from the pot of boiling water, and practicing what he’ll say when he goes back to the shop tomorrow.

“So, Louis?” Harry starts, in a too-high, too-bright tone of voice. “Maybe we could have food sometime? You and me? Different food, obviously.” He shakes his head, and tries again.

“Do you want to go out and eat? Together? You have to eat, right?”

Pathetic. He should call Liam right now. Interrupt _his_ dinner, and tell him he’s made a career-ending mistake betting on Harry.

“Louis, I really like you. A lot. Do you like me too?”

He burns his mouth trying to taste-test the doneness of the penne, and curses.

“Like I’m in bloody primary school.”

“Louis, I was wondering...” He pours the pasta into a colander, the boiling water hitting the bottom of his sink sending steam back into his face. “...If you’d like to go to dinner with me sometime.”

It sounds right, at long last. Harry knows, because he feels a twinge imagining what it would be like if Louis said that to him. He’d probably die on the spot, but he’d be happy about it.

That’s what he’ll say. Short and sweet. If Louis declines, he’ll roll with it.

Because a rejection isn’t even the scariest outcome. Harry’s spent so much time stressing about what would happen if Louis didn’t want him too, that he’s had little opportunity to entertain the idea that he might say _yes._

What the fuck is he supposed to do if Louis says yes?

This is why god invented comfort food, he thinks as he digs into his heaping bowl of penne ala vodka.

Harry opens his phone and scrolls through his emails to stave off worries about what kind of restaurant Louis might like and whether he’d mind if Harry kissed him at the end of the night and how, exactly, Harry will survive an actual evening alone with a person that’s making his heart do things he forgot it could do. His eye catches on a new message from Liam, and he clicks in immediately.

_Hi, Harry:_

(Their emails have become much more casual, and, he has to say it, familiar, since they first met.)

_So sorry for the weekend email. I’m on a train, so I figured I’d get some work done._

_Now that the paperwork is all settled, I’d love to start thinking about next steps. So please send over whatever treatments or drafts you’re feeling ready to share. I can’t wait to get a look at what you’re working on!_

_Talk soon,_

_LP_

A piece of penne falls from the fork that stopped halfway to his mouth and back into the bowl, surely splashing Harry’s Beastie Boys tee with tiny droplets of sauce.

“Shit.”

He hurries to dip his napkin into his water glass, but when he reaches down to try to erase the red splotches, he doesn’t find any.

“Huh.” A lucky near miss.

His thoughts return to his chaotic Google doc, which is more of a literary Pinterest board than a slick novel treatment, and has a long way to go before Harry will be willing to let anyone – even his agent – see it.

It’s not that he’s blocked, per se. He’s just had a lot on his mind, and it’s not exactly easy to be creative when you’ve exhausted your brain from doing other things. Harry was able to finish his novel over nights and weekends because he knew exactly where he was going and what he wanted to accomplish. It was just a matter of getting there, which was more about determination and putting one foot in front of the other than some sudden stroke of genius.

But Liam, understandably, wants something new. And though Harry drops every wisp of an idea and bit of inspiration into the document that he can, it’s not a plot. He has no setting or characters, let alone an ending. He needs that ending, before he can even begin.

Fortunately, his next manual deadline is weeks away, so Harry decides that he can devote the next few days to trying to break out of this rut and make sense of all his barely coherent notes. He’ll chain himself to the thing if he has to. Because he can’t be that person who only has one good idea in them and then struggles for the rest of their life to ever get back to the place that they once thought of as just the starting point. He just can’t.

Sighing in resignation, Harry goes to retrieve a beer from his refrigerator, figuring that if he’s really going to put off his love life in favor of not becoming a burnout in his early 20s, he deserves a treat. It’s cosmically unfair that all of this should be happening to Harry at the same time, after months of plodding, comforting tedium.

There’s no other option, though, he realizes as he pops the bottle open and takes a sip. He has to clear his mind, put anything that isn’t his next novel on hold, even though there’s no guarantee that Louis will still be there when he’s back on track. Because Louis isn’t just a flawless bone structure and a smile that makes Harry catch his breath. He’s lit up, from the inside. And Harry knows that there must be people in this world who’d take one look at Louis and actually rise to the occasion of his overwhelming prettiness. Whisk him off on the romantic adventure Harry has no doubt he deserves.

“Wankers,” he remarks to Sadie, who abruptly stops grooming herself and looks at him knowingly. The words are written all over her tiny furry face: He’s taking the easy way out.

That may be why he became a cat person – for the tough love.

Deep down he knows she’s right. On the plus side, he doesn’t have to worry now about the far scarier option of Louis saying yes to dinner, of asking that question at all. Admiring Louis from afar, that’s torture, but torture Harry is used to, can handle. Making himself vulnerable though? He usually just does that on the page.

Still. Louis, he’s sure, would have been worth it.

But there’s nothing to be done about it now. Not when he’s so behind on his next project. Nothing, that is, except carbs.

So Harry shovels another forkful of pasta into his mouth, and tucks away his question for another day.


	3. Chapter 3

“Mornin’ love, what can I get ya?”

“Uhhh…”

Harry stares blankly at the genial-looking woman, gaze falling past her face and landing on the visible tip of the pen holding her grey-streaked hair up in a precarious knot.

“Love?” she says again. “Can I help you?”

He’d thought about skipping today. If he had half the discipline he needed to get another book written with his sanity in tact, he would have. Harry should be bolted into his apartment, ordering takeaway he’ll ignore until it’s lukewarm and congealed, like any other self-respecting writer. Besides, he wasn’t entirely confident that he wouldn’t forget himself once he was in front of Louis again. Try as he did to compartmentalize his desires, he still laid awake last night repeating that question over and over again – mostly silently, but sometimes out loud. It sounded nice. It _felt_ nice.

It was good to want somebody again.

“We just added acai bowls to the menu, if you like those,” the woman at the counter tries. He could learn from her determination.

“Sorry, wow,” Harry surfaces, shaking his head a little. “Lost my train of thought a bit there.”

That’s not true. He knew where it was the whole time.

“Sharon,” a voice drifts in from behind her. “D’you mind unpacking the cereal bars? I can take over here for a bit.”

Harry absolutely forbids himself to look relieved.

Louis places his hand on his coworker’s upper back for a second, and she smiles warmly at him.

“Of course, darling.”

As he suspected. Liking Louis is a universal thing.

Louis doesn’t turn his head to look at Harry until Sharon is away, happy to be slicing packages open with a box cutter and arranging Peanut Butter Protein Blasts on a shelf, all because she was asked so nicely.

“Hey,” he says, finally. It’s a touch softer than his previous greetings, and Harry feels it down to his toes.

“Hi.” Harry feels the corner of his lip tug upward.

“Did you have a nice weekend?” Louis’s eyes falls to the keypad in front of him, even though Harry’s given him nothing to enter. Harry’s beginning to recognize it as his tell. He noticed. That Harry hadn’t come by.

“Pretty good, yeah. Saw some family, got some work done. You?”

“Oh, you know. Slicing. Blending,” Louis looks back at Harry, eyes twinkling mischievously. “Did a bit of juicing as well, even though Dalton usually handles those orders.”

Harry drops his chin, embarrassed. “Right,”

“I did have Sunday off, though,” Louis provides helpfully, looking for Harry behind his curtain of hair.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, just popped over to Paris for the day, took the redeye back.”

Harry’s heart sinks. Not the sort of thing you do alone, probably.

“That’s…wow.”

Louis puts a hand on his heart, eyes closing for a half-second. “Oh bless you, you actually believed me. Nice to know someone could get the impression that my life might be exciting. No, I’m kidding. I pretty much just knocked around my flat. Had a few things to work on.”

“House things? Like chores?”

“Bit of tinkering. ‘I’m a tinkerer,’ me mum used to say that.”

Hungry to know more, to know anything about Louis, Harry endeavors to look as open and unhurried as possible.

“You make things.”

“Sometimes, I guess,” Louis says, lightly. “Or I fix them, or change them. She taught me. How to figure out how something works, then see if I could try to make it better. Anytime I was off school, that’s what we did. And there you are, it became a habit.”

He sounds wistful, in a way that makes Harry’s heart ache. Like he’s talking about someone who isn’t here anymore.

He feels his eyebrows knit together in concern. Imagine him, assuming he has control over his own face.

“I do go on about it,” Louis says hastily. “I’m sorry.”

But he hasn’t said anything, not really. Harry wants to tell Louis that he’s not inconveniencing him, that it’s a privilege to share anything he’s feeling. But they’re divided by a formica counter, underneath industrial, energy-conserving light bulbs, and Louis is on the clock.

Don’t get him wrong, Harry’s grateful for this place for bringing them together at all. But he’d give anything for the whole shop to dissolve right now, like a cheap effect in one of those ‘60s TV shows.

“Don’t worry, please,” Harry says softly. Louis bites the inside of his mouth and nods. The atmosphere around them thickens, begging a change in subject.

“Do you have any boosts back there that work on writers block?” Harry asks, sending his voice a little higher.

“Oh no, really?” Louis’s expression turns sympathetic. “Is it bad?”

“Erm, to be determined. That agent, _my_ agent, he’s asking for some ideas and it didn’t really come up in our meeting…”

“What?”

“That I don’t have any? Well, I have a lot, but none of them are very big or very good.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. You wrote a whole book already!”

“Yeah, well. You know how there are one-hit wonders in music? They’re pretty common in the literary world too. Not that my novel classifies as a hit. I don’t think they let you say that if your relatives bought most of the copies.”

“Stick with me here, ‘cause I’m no expert.” Louis puts his hands out in front of him, palm facing out, like an American football coach explaining a play. “But novels aren’t just one idea, are they? They’re lots of little ones, it seems to me.”

Harry captures his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, mostly to prevent exposing how adorable he finds this.

“And you said you have those, so...you just have to figure out how they fit together.” Louis shrugs, like it’s as simple as that. Harry almost believes him.

“Easier said than done,” Harry says.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Bet you’ll figure it out though.” Louis winks at him, and it’s a door thrown open. Harry helplessly sits in the moment, question on the treacherous tip of his tongue, trying and failing to appreciate his own willpower.

“Hope so,” he says through gritted teeth.

Louis nods and smiles a close-lipped smile at him, something shutting (not slamming) shut behind his eyes. Heading to the back, he doesn’t ask what Harry wants, because there would be no point.

“Fuck,” Harry whispers to the ceiling, once Louis is far enough away not to hear him.

“He’s a sweet one, isn’t he?” a voice says from behind him. He whirls around to find Sharon, clutching a handful of cereal bars and looking at him knowingly. “Very strange. But sweet.”

Later, back in his flat and armed with a tropical concoction that tastes like beach sunsets and that feeling you only get after you shower the sand off your body and then crawl, bone-tired, into cool, clean sheets, Harry takes a deep breath and opens the Google Doc from Hell. Within a couple of hours, he’s started a new file, and transferred all of his most workable concepts to it, and even organized them into some semblance of a plot.

“Your dad may not be a failure after all,” he announces to Sadie, who’s perched on a storage ottoman across the room, as he copies and pastes another character sketch that he can incorporate.

Harry removes the lid from the smoothie cup and licks the precious droplets clinging to the plastic, reading back over his work so far.

“Wait.”

He scrolls back to the top, eyes skimming over the text another time.

“Oh, holy shit.”

He pushes his weight back into his chair, forearms flat on the armrests.

“Shit. That’s it.”

*****

“What’s it about?” Louis asks, handing a leaf green smoothie to Harry, grinning at his enthusiasm.

Harry wrote in a dervish last night, breaking only for a cup of tea between finishing his outline and embarking on the last chapter. (First thing’s first.) He typed for hours – sitting, standing up, laying down on his stomach with Sadie snuggled into the small of his back. The words came quicker than they ever have before, and so did his understanding of how they had to work together. Nothing stumped Harry, sent him walking around the block or into online research that slowly morphs into off-topic procrastination and boxes of new shoes turning up on his door three days later. He had to remind himself to heat up a can of soup for dinner around 10pm, and then he kept on writing until his eyelids started to droop and the screen blurred.

But instead of being exhausted, he’s invigorated. Harry doesn’t consider himself a superstitious writer, but he still refused to re-read his pages this morning, knowing that, after a spree like that, a little distance is good. (They might all be crap, anyway, but that’s why god inventing editing.) After lazily scrolling through Twitter over breakfast, Harry ran his favorite loop twice, stretching out the limbs that were curled into all manner of positions the previous day.

His stomach growled at him as he passed the shop, but Harry ignored it, opting to shower yesterday’s grease and this morning’s sweat off his body first.

So he’s standing in front of Louis today in worn-in black jeans and a Calvin Klein crew-neck jumper, clean, half-dry curls loose and falling just below his shoulders. His last act before walking out the door was spritzing some of the expensive, spicy cologne Zayn bought him for his last birthday into the air and then walking through it, like Zayn showed him. Zayn, however, managed to look hopelessly cool doing it, and not ridiculous, which is how Harry _would_ feel, if he weren’t also elated by his progress.

Louis’s question is so expected, so obvious, but it sends Harry’s mind reeling. He’s too deep in the bowels of the story to be able to surface and explain it. Succinctly, at least.

“I’m not sure how to answer that, actually,” he says, taking the drink. “I know that sounds strange.”

“No, I mean. You just started, right?”

“I’m not great at summarizing anyway. I sort of need somebody else to read what I’ve written? And then tell me what the most important parts are. I’m too close to it.”

“Publishing companies probably have people who do that right?” Louis says, encouragingly.

“They probably do,” Harry says slowly, seeing where Louis is going with this.

“Then you should be fine. _But_ since I’m the man keeping the writer in highly nutritious blended drinks, I still think I deserve a preview.” He arches an eyebrow in a challenge Harry is far too willing to accept, god help him. “If you want to, that is.”

“I don’t...disagree.”

“Are you busy? Because I can take my break now. In all seriousness, I’d love to hear about it, however long it takes to tell me. Well, up to 20 minutes, or Ollie back there will have burned the place down.”

“But you don’t even cook anything here.”

“He’ll find a way, trust me,” Louis explains, gently exasperated.

Harry feels his nose scrunch up in amusement, which he knows is _his_ tell. “Sure, alright then.”

“Sick. Sharon,” Louis calls to the back. “Can you cover the reg for a few? Taking me break.”

“‘Course, love,” Sharon says, not so subtly looking Harry up and down as she takes her post. Harry smiles self-consciously at her, and she waggles her too-thin, manicured eyebrows at him from behind Louis.

“Cheers.” Louis walks to the little swinging door that separates the back of the shop from the front and pushes through it with his thighs. Harry swallows discreetly. He’s made a tactical error.

But it’s too late. Louis is standing in front of him, no closer than they’ve been every other time Harry’s visited the store. But now there’s no barrier between them, and it’s vaguely surreal, like seeing a celebrity in line at Tesco’s.

His fringe is swept back today – not in a quiff exactly, but styled higher on his forehead instead of falling into his eyes. Louis wears the same uniform he always does: a white t-shirt with Mystic’s blue starburst logo over his heart, on top of a pair of classic blue jeans. And he left his apron behind the counter, giving Harry his first good look at Louis’s legs, thick and compact, hugged by the skinny-cut denim.

Harry takes in this visual information as quickly as he can, by no means wanting Louis to regret coming out here on account of his lovesick customer leering at him.

Still, he’d be surprised with himself if one of the characters in his new book doesn’t end up having a shapely lower body, lovingly described across at least half a page.

“Alright.” Louis claps his hands together, then gestures towards the seating area. “Shall we?”

He waits, letting Harry walk ahead of him and pick a seat at one of their two tiny cafe tables, absent of any other guests. Meanwhile, Harry’s pulse is quickening, a physical reaction that tells him that he was crazy to think he might have been ready to actually go on a _date_ with this person.

Their dynamic has barely changed. All Louis did was take his break and offer to be a sounding board. But Harry feels anxious and protective, like he’s been handed something very fragile and then hustled onto a rollercoaster.

Louis, on the other hand, is fully at ease, leaning back in his chair and pulling one leg up onto the seat, his open expression yielding Harry the floor.

“It’s hard to know where to start,” Harry laughs nervously. “Should’ve brought my notes.”

“No pressure, mate. It’s not like I even know what I’m talking about. I’m just interested, that’s all.”

“Thank you for that, by the way. Just for being interested.” Harry doesn’t try to mask that he’s touched, because he is. For anyone to be interested in the contents of his head still humbles him.

“Are you kidding? How many novelists do you think I know?”

They both chuckle at Louis’s incredulity, then it’s silent, for a beat.

“So my first book,” Harry says, breaking it. “I don’t know if I ever told you. It was a love story. A sad one.”

“Ah, so you’re one of those. You like to make people cry.”

“Watch enough Nicholas Sparks movies, and you too will be consumed with ideas about how to tragically end relationships,” Harry responds. “Not great if you want to be fun at parties, but you’ll nail the third act.”

“Noted,” Louis laughs.

“Anyway, I love romance. I really do. And I want to write more again someday. This time with a happy ending, I think. But I wanted to try something else first. So I had this thought in my mind that I could write a book that treats a friendship like a romance.”

“I love that.”

“Yeah, I just think…” Harry pauses, gathering his case. “For a lot of people, those are the most important relationships in their lives, but everything in our culture – art, music, books, movies – everything prioritizes romantic love. And that’s not even something everyone even wants.”

“Sure,” Louis agrees. “That’s true.”

“At the same time, I was reading a lot of multi-generational stories. As a reader, it’s so satisfying to see how plot threads continue over years and years. Spot all the themes, all that stuff.”

Louis nods, then leans forward, placing his elbows on the table and dropping his chin into his hands.

“But what really brought this all together, was when you said that novels are just lots of small ideas.”

Louis opens his mouth, probably to protest.

“Seriously, Louis,” Harry barrels on. “That, like, unlocked something for me. I knew I had images and character ideas I could use, and it just makes sense to string together into a story that spans decades, countries even. Stories about all different kinds of friendships.”

“I don’t know how they all play out yet, exactly, so I won’t walk you through all of them. But the main relationship, and the one I think I’m going to spend the most time on, is sort of based on my great-grandfather.”

“Oh yeah?

“Yeah. He fought in World War I, and my grandmother gave me some old letters and things, a long time ago. They’re amazing, I don’t know how many times I’ve read them. I think she thought I might be inspired by them, and I was. I am. I didn’t want to write a war novel, though. That’s just not me, and I couldn’t do it justice. But he wrote so much about the men in his platoon, and stayed close with a lot of them. They kept each other alive, and I don’t just mean physically. I realized yesterday that _that’s_ it. That’s how I write about my great-granddad. I talk about him and his men.”

“Haz, that sounds–” Harry’s cheeks heat up at the nickname. Louis may or may not have noticed. It may or may not mean the whole damn world to him. “–really epic. Like, Jesus. That’s so ambitious. People are going to be blown away. Starting with that fancy agent of yours.”

“ _I_ _f_ I can pull it off,” Harry cautions, darkly.

“If? Who was it that just came in here today, bragging about all the pages they’d written last night?”

“No, I know. It was a good day, really good.”

“So?”

“So...what if I sit down to write tomorrow morning and nothing comes out?” Harry asks. “What if I just can’t do it anymore? _That’s_ the fear. I know it’s not rational, but it’s there, all the time.”

“In that case, I’m even more impressed,” Louis states.

Harry stares at him quizzically.

“Because it means that what you’re doing is really brave.”

*****

Harry’s putting for par on the green of the ninth hole when he realizes. Something is very, very wrong.

The same afternoon he sent Liam his first pages and a somewhat still rambling plot synopsis, Liam had invited Harry to come golfing with him and one of his good friends, who just happens to be an editor at an up-and-coming small press.

If Niall Horan is half as good at editing books as he is at golf, that company is going places. It’s clearly his other passion. He has the top-shelf gear and course stories of a seasoned player, not a casual one.

Harry, on the other hand, hasn’t held a golf club in his hand since the summer after his first year of uni, when he and his stepdad went to Scotland on holiday and played nine on a whim.

It’s never been his thing. His work requires enough patience, concentration, and quiet. Harry needed his leisure activities to be a little more active, less – he’ll say it – dull. As a result, he’s never been much of a golfer. Never, until today.

Harry has shot on or under par at every hole so far. His first drive elicited a low, impressed whistle from Niall, a cocky, bespectacled Irishman, who now seems to be under the impression that Harry is also some sort of golf nut.

“Have you tried that new Callaway Epic?” Niall asks, after Harry sinks the shot. “It’s a fucking arm and a leg, but it’s quality.”

“Erm.” Harry slides his rented putter back into the bag. “No, I haven’t gotten my hands on that one yet.”

“I’m savin’ up for them,” Niall says, leaning on the back of the cart. “Gonna change my whole game. I know it.”

“You’re obsessed,” Niall’s boyfriend Shawn says from the driver’s seat, without a hint of judgment.

“I’m _dedicated_.”

“How we doin’ boys?” Liam asks, sauntering over to the cart after sinking his putt, putting him one stroke above par for this hole.

“You should have told me you were bringing a ringer, Payno,” Niall says, tossing his arm in Harry’s direction.

“I didn’t know I was,” Liam says, clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “But I’m glad he’s on my team.”

This is networking. Harry should be networking – getting in good with Niall (and Shawn), building a rapport. How can he, when he doesn’t even know what his body’s doing?

One decent hole would be luck. Two would be a fluke. But Harry is playing like someone who’s dedicated their life to the sport.

It’s all come easily to him: the grip, the positioning of his feet, the assessment of the wind. It’s like Harry’s running on autopilot. It’s freaking him out. He even tried to whiff on the seventh hole, when the other three weren’t looking, but it didn’t work. The head of his club connected with the ball, sending it sailing out of the rough and onto the green, two feet from the hole. An easy tip in.

_Fuck._

An hour and a half later, the clubhouse waiter is filling their waters and Niall is trying not to sound put out that Harry had a lower score than him.

“Where’d you learn to chip like that, anyway?” he asks, his easygoing tone layered over something sharper.

Fantastic. Golf wasn’t even the point of this. Liam just wanted to introduce them, let Niall show off in front of Harry. Now Harry seems like a showboat, and they’ll never even get to the topic of books.

“I usually don’t play like this, trust me,” Harry says. “Just lucky today, I don’t know.”

“Nah, man. I’ve seen lucky games – those shots that shouldn’t go in. This was skill,” Shawn adds. Niall looks pointedly at him, and Shawn hides his face behind the large, laminated lunch menu.

Harry shoots a look at Liam, whose expression is just this side of grim. _Compliment him_ , Harry thinks. _Compliment him now._

“Niall, mate,” he starts, racking his brain for golf terms. “Your...trousers. They’re, um, great. Where’d you get them?”

Niall stares at him for a moment, face blank. Harry considers flipping the table and pulling a runner.

Then, Niall laughs. A brassy, unruly cackle.

“I love this guy,” he says to Liam, pointing to Harry with his thumb. “He just wiped the fucking floor with me, and he wants to know where I buy my clothes.”

Fortunately, Niall’s golf obsession extends to fashion. Considerably brightened, Niall regales Harry with all the names, locations, and best sale periods of his favorite sportswear designers, occasionally pulling up looks on his phone.

The mood is relaxed and even jovial after that. Liam’s forehead un-creases, and they order Moscow mules to go with their sandwiches. Eventually, Niall asks what kind of writing Harry does, and Harry and Liam tag team a plot synopsis of _Ever Since New York_.

“Sounds nice,” Niall says, before popping a chip into his mouth and forming the rest of his sentence around it. “Gotta be honest, though. We don’t publish a lot of weepers.”

“Not your brand, no,” Liam responds. “But Harry’s next novel might be of interest to you. It’s ambitious, has a historical bent.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s an _epic_ – quirky, heartfelt, massively character-driven. And listen, he has a long way to go. We’re not shopping this around yet. But I thought of you and Flicker first, because I know you feel the same way I do about the literary establishment.”

Niall swallows a sip of his mule and raises his glass. “Fuck ‘em.”

“Exactly,” Liam says, seriously. “Fuck ‘em. Fuck that whole machine. Niall, this isn’t going to be some generic paperback you buy in the airport, okay? Harry’s on to something bold and creative and he has the talent to pull it off. The work ethic too.”

Unsure what to do when he’s being talked up in his own presence, Harry waits, thoughts ping-ponging between his professional future and his inexplicable present. Whether Niall likes him or not doesn’t solve the mystery of what happened this afternoon.

“Alright, alright,” Niall capitulates. “You can keep me in the loop. Let me know how it’s going.”

“There’s a lad,” Liam grins.

It’s not like Harry’s never played golf before, or that he doesn’t know on some level what to do. It’s that it’s usually harder to make his body do what he wants. And in this case, it all came naturally. Like he’d been practicing in his sleep or something.

Come to think of it, a lot of things have been coming naturally to Harry lately.

“All you had to do was imply that the thing might piss some people off,” Niall says. “You know I love it when those old dinosaurs get all bent out of shape. They go on those stuffy talk shows and talk about ‘the death of the novel.’ ‘s hilarious.”

Writing was a breeze. He’d caught every walk sign on his last few jogs. He wore a white t-shirt to eat pasta and didn’t spill a drop on him. As anxious as he is, Harry spends a lot of time trying to accept that life’s little indignities are universal and unavoidable – and not solely his own fault. So how could it have taken him this long to realize that he hasn’t experienced one of those indignities in weeks?

Harry racks his brain to remember the last time he faltered or did something clumsy, like buttoning up a shirt wrong or spilling Sadie’s food or stubbing his toe...

_“Oops.”_

_“Hi.”_

He remembers the sound his trainer had made connecting with the counter at Mystic, the first day he went in.

The first day he met Louis.

“Harry? Harry, did you hear what I said?”

“Hm?”

Flustered, Harry reaches for his mule, tapping his water glass. Hard. For a split second, he anticipates it upending on the table, sending all four of them scattering and drenching the white tablecloth. It doesn’t. It rocks a bit, but doesn’t fall.

_Jesus, Mary and Joseph._

“Woo, close one,” Shawn observes. “You _must_ be lucky.”

“Can you just...excuse me for one second?” Harry jerkily rises from the table, barely registering Liam’s look of concern.

“Are you feeling well?”

“Oh, I’m fine. Just going to the toilets.”

Harry power walks out of the clubhouse entrance and into the men’s locker room. Thankful to find it empty, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and plops down onto a bench.

He concentrates on taking deep inhales and exhales, and though they’re shaky at first, they smooth out eventually.

Nothing’s _wrong_  he tells himself. Everything just might be too right.

Harry opens his text conversation with Gemma, then hesitates. What’s he supposed to say? “I’m magically good at everything now, please help”?

He’ll think of something, later. Some way of describing this thing that he’s now dead sure is happening to him.

_Can we get coffee tomorrow? Want to talk to you about something and don’t want to wait till Sunday. Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad.xxx_

She pings him back less than thirty seconds later.

_course. the usual place, 11?xxx_

Harry sighs in relief, anticipating his sister’s cool head and open – but rational – mind.

He’s gone to her for everything, and she’s never let him down.

Meanwhile, Liam will probably drop him if Harry doesn’t get back in there right now. So he drags himself back to his feet, then goes to the mirror to check the state of his bun.

Perfect.

Eighteen holes, and not a single hair out of place.


	4. Chapter 4

“Can you just...not? You know I hate that.”

“Sorry,” Harry says glumly, returning his coffee spoon to his saucer. It’s an awful habit, he’s well aware, tapping utensils on his teeth while he’s thinking. It’s as grating and unpleasant to him as it is to Gemma, but his subconscious seems to find a perverse satisfaction in it. But that’s why his sister’s here: To make some sense of that subconscious, and the surface one too, while she’s at it.

Gemma tucks a strand of her subtly ombre-ed hair behind her ear – a sign she’s ready to get down to business.

“So. What’s going on with you?”

He’s had almost a full day to come up with an answer. For someone who’s dedicated his life to putting the hazy interior lives of people into words, Harry isn’t finding it easy to rationally explain his own gut feeling. But denying it isn’t an option either, so he’s damn sure going to try.

“Um.” Harry pinches an empty sweetener packet between his fingers, and begins to shred it. “Okay...so, I’m still me, right? I still do that thing with the spoon that makes you crazy.”

“Apparently.”

“But I seem normal to you? Nothing seems, like, _off_ at all?”

Gemma frowns. It’s always so strange to see his own frown on someone else’s face. But oddly comforting too.

“You did say nothing was wrong...”

“It’s not,” Harry confirms, quickly, lest Gemma think he wanted her to look for the signs of some sickness or injury on him.

“I’m the same. Mostly. But...” He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, and pauses. “Every time we come here, I forget there are two small steps up to the door, instead of one big one. Today I didn’t.”

Gemma furrows her brow. Harry squirms under her microscope.

“And last night, after golf, I went straight home and knocked out eight more pages before bed. I looked them over this morning, and there wasn’t a single mistake. No typos, no extra words. There wasn’t even anything I wanted to change to make a little better, clearer. That’s not normal, Gem. I always see something. Usually, I’m editing until they pull it out of my hands.”

She lowers her chin and regards him skeptically. “Harry, did you bring me here to tell me that you finally remembered a structural detail of a coffee shop we go to twice a month and that you’re a perfect writer now?”

“No. Actually, yes, but that’s not...it, exactly. Goddammit.”

Softening, Gemma reaches across the cafe table and places a hand on the inside of his elbow. “It’s fine. I’m sorry. Take your time.”

“It’s _weird._ I played golf yesterday for the first time in six years, and I played a pro game. I sit down to write, and it just comes out. Fully formed. And then there’s the little things, like that stupid step. I _know_ myself. I know what I would do, how I would usually be. I’m really freaked out.”

“What are you saying, exactly?”

“Everything’s been too easy. Too perfect. I know it’s stupid, but it’s a little scary.”

“Okay,” she soothes. “Okay, we’re going to figure this out. This is just recent, yeah?”

Harry nods, pressing his lips together in a grim line.

“So something happened. Something must have changed, and it’s making you feel like this. Have you done anything differently lately? Sleeping, eating...you’re not taking anything, are you?”

“I smoke pot with Zayn sometimes, but we’ve been doing that since uni. And I haven’t in weeks.”

Gemma pulls out her cell phone, prepared to do some aggressive Googling. “There has to be something. Can you think a little harder for me, babe?”

Harry doesn’t have to. Somewhere, down in the bottom of his soul, he knows what’s happened. What’s changed.

“This is going to sound completely mental,” he says, low and slow. “But please just...hear me out, because I don’t know what else to do.”

Gemma nods, decidedly, fingers poised on her touchscreen.

Harry sighs, hesitant to even speak his theory out loud.

“I started going to this place, on my street. They make smoothies and stuff.”

“Okay…” Gemma prods him on.

“There’s this guy who works there. _Really_ fit, but that’s not the point.” He wrinkles his nose. “At least, I don’t think that’s the point.”

“Cute guy, I’m with you.”

“Every time I go, he just makes me something. I don’t order. He likes to do it, and I like to let him. And it’s different, each time, but always so fucking good. Like, the god-tier of smoothies. I’m bloody addicted to them.”

“To _them?”_ Gemma arches a brow.

“Obviously, I fancy him,” Harry says matter-of-factly. “Which is a completely separate problem.”

His sister stares at him for beat. “Is it?”

“What?”

“I don’t know, Harry. But I don’t think that’s an irrelevant detail.” She takes a pull from her room temperature macchiato, then continues. “They’re normal drinks though?”

Harry pauses, his brain cycling through every blissful fusion of flavors. He should have had a favorite, shouldn’t he? But he can’t pick one – everything Louis gave him tasted like exactly what he wanted. “Dunno. I assumed so, because...I mean, of course I did.”

“And you can trace whatever it is that’s happening to you down to your first one?”

“It sounds crazy, I know. But yeah. I’m 99 percent sure.”

Gemma puts her phone down on the table, giving up the ghost of this being a problem with a searchable solution.

“The way I see it, one of two things is going on here. One: You are so into this guy that you’ve assigned all this extra, supernatural meaning into the nice things that he does for you,” she says. “It sounds like he’s flirting back, by the way.”

Harry feels a flush settle on his neck. “And what’s the other?”

“He’s a witch,” Gemma states. “Or wizard or a warlock or whatever. A nice one, though. He’s giving you potions that are helping you.”

Harry looks for a smirk. A twinge of an eyelid. Nothing.

“Are you...wait, are you being serious?”

“We live in a big city, Harry. Must be a lot of practicing witches around. Maybe some of them work at smoothie shops and like polite boys with curly hair.”

“You _are_ serious.”

“Okay, you remember my mate Cecile? From secondary?”

“Sort of…”

“She had this weird flatmate in uni. Kept plants drying all over her room, strange smells coming from under her door, all that. But they were friendly, got close after a while. And one night, she told Cecile the truth. She was a practicing witch. She’d grown up with it, was born into, like, a witch family. And Cecile believed her, she said, because she could do what she said she could. Pretty mild stuff, though, I think. She wasn’t turning people into lizards or anything.”

Harry’s heart had jumped up into his throat the first time Gemma had said the word, and stayed there. Louis had told him to listen to his intuition, hadn’t he?

“What _did_ she do, then?” he says, sounding a little strangled.

“I think she was mostly working on really minor stuff,” Gemma says, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “But once Cecile knew, she’d try things out on her. Like if Cecile had an exam, her flatmate would give her something that would make her really sharp and alert. I suppose it worked.”

“I can’t believe you never told me about this.”

“Cecile wasn’t supposed to tell _me._ Her flatmate wasn’t supposed to tell her. I guess the whole thing is really hush-hush, which makes sense, considering people aren’t walking up to you on the street and talking about their spells and stuff.”

Harry’s sensible inner voice tries to jump in, assert that if spells and magic were real, he would know it by now. The whole world would. But even that voice can’t deny that there was always something _more_ about Louis. He seemed to be operating on a different plane, an impression Harry had ascribed to his own raging crush on him. But as unbelievable as Gemma’s story _should_ be, it’s sending the pieces falling into place.

Louis is magic. Of course he is.

“I don’t even know what to say.”

“Look, I don’t know if that’s it,” Gemma says. “But your story, it made me think of Cecile immediately. If it is true, though, I have to say: I don’t love it that he didn’t ask you if it was okay. Must be against witch ethics or something."

“Mmm,” Harry hums noncommittally. As strange as this all is, he trusts Louis. Maybe it wasn’t cool, but he knows Louis would never intentionally do anything to hurt him, or anybody.

“So what are you going to do?”

“I dunno. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”

“You should find out,” Gemma says. “Just ask him, directly. He owes you an answer, at least.”

“But you said they’re not allowed to tell.”

“Well, I’d say he gave up his right to privacy when he started bloody enchanting you without your consent.” His sister draws up her posture indignantly, then relaxes. “Anyway, seems to me like he wants you to know, eventually. He obviously likes you.”

“You think?”

She rolls her eyes magnificently. “Please. This whole thing, it’s like a rom-com. You come in, you two make eyes at each other, he makes you something special....You are definitely gonna kiss.”

“Gem.” Harry tries hides his blush in his hands, but she reaches out again and pinches his cheek anyway.

“A witch son-in-law,” she says, in exaggerated wistfulness. “Mum will be so proud.”

*****

Harry makes up as many reasons as he can to delay his trip down the block. But once he’s filled up Sadie’s electric fountain to the brim, straightened his room, sent a check-in email to Liam, and changed his outfit three times, he’s out of ideas.

He looks at himself one last time – seriously, the _last time –_ in the full-length mirror hanging inside his tiny closet, satisfied that his black jeans and slate grey henley are suitably casual, while still showing off his narrow waist and broad shoulders. His hair, on the other hand, hasn’t been cooperating today. Harry grabs a black beanie from the shelf above his head and tugs it down over his curls, taming them into place.

“What the fuck am I doing?” he asks his reflection. Lounging on the bed behind him, Sadie yawns.

He’d left Gemma yesterday feeling resolved and relatively confident, all things considered. He wasn’t delusional. There was an explanation for everything.

But that resolution faded as soon as his groggy mind started to sharpen over his morning coffee, and Harry remembered that he’d promised his sister that he would walk into Mystic today and ask Louis – just ask him, as simple as that – if he could do magic.

This is worse, he decides. This is worse than the prospect of asking him out. Because if Harry’s wrong about this, he can’t ever set foot in that shop ever again. He’ll probably have to move. And his flat isn’t perfect (Exhibit A: the hard water’s vendetta against his hair), but he’d rather not have to upend his life because he humiliated himself in front of Louis.

On the other hand, he just has to know.

So, Harry takes his wallet from his dresser and slides it into his pocket, deciding not to shrug on a jacket for the short trip.

He loves his sister, really. They’re practically the same person. Harry doesn’t know what he’d do without her. It’s a shame, then, that if Louis laughs in his face, he’ll have to disown her completely.

The day is a cloudy one, and Harry shivers at the absence of the sun’s warmth when he steps outside in just his thin cotton shirt. As much as he’d like to take his sweet time ambling towards the shop, delaying his public self-execution, it’s too cold for that.

Harry does an awkward half-jog down his street, clutching his arms against his body, his heart pounding with apprehension inside of his chest.

Maybe Louis is off of work again today. Maybe Harry can just say hello to Sharon, order off the menu, and endure her nosiness, harmless as it is. Maybe he can just go about his normal, boring life, and never set foot on a golf course again.

Then he’s looking through the window at Louis’s smile, the way that no corner of his face is excluded from it, and Harry knows. He can’t walk away from this without losing something possible and precious.

Louis is helping someone, his affability and easiness palpable even from Harry’s vantage point. Harry’s free to look, busy as Louis is, so he takes note of the boy’s body language.

Louis smiles at everyone, Harry knows that well enough by now. But currently, he’s standing fully upright at the counter, back straight, elbows at right angles as he waits to key in the customer’s order. Professional. Appropriately detached.

Harry’s heart swells at the confirmation that he’s different, reveling in the memories of Louis leaning into his space, relaxing into their conversations.

That, at least, he’s not making up.

The rest of it, though. Whether Gemma’s old school friend really lived with a witch or not, it might be just an excess of imagination on Harry’s part.

There’s only one way to find out.

Harry shakes out his wrists and hands, trying to dispose of his nervous energy. He pushes in the door just as the woman who’d been at the counter is on her way out. She looks up at him through her long, messy fringe and smiles as Harry holds it for her, but Harry almost misses her “Cheers,” because he turns his head towards the back of the shop to find Louis’s eyes on him, expression gentle and soft around the edges.

Belatedly, Harry lets the door swing shut after the woman, who’s already long gone. His pulse pounds in his ears as he makes his way to the counter, a repeating chorus of “I can’t do this” breaking in on the downbeats.

“Aren’t you cold?” Louis asks, in way of greeting.

“Oh, um.” Harry looks down at his clothes as if he hadn’t spent close to 40 minutes deciding on them. “Actually, yeah. Dunno what I was thinking.”

“Good that you’re close, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, standing right in front of Louis now, too nervous to appreciate the way he tilts his head and opens up his body language. The ever-present smile on Louis’s face flickers and threatens to fade as he takes in Harry’s frowning hesitation.

“Everything alright?”

“I think so,” Harry says, extremely conscious of the slight tremor in his voice. “I just...Louis, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“I’m really sorry if this is gonna sound weird, or too forward...” Harry shifts his weight and shoves his hands into his pockets, then barks an anxious laugh. Louis watches him with curiosity. “I don’t even know how to say this.”

His eyes drop to the floor as he tries to find words to replace the ones he’d practiced before, which now sound too foreign and strange to speak out loud.

“Am I that obvious?” Louis says after a beat. Harry snaps his gaze back up to Louis’s face and finds him biting down on a smile.

He’s stunned into stillness. Louis knows that Harry knows. In all of the ways he imagined this conversation would go, Harry never once entertained the idea that Louis would answer the question without him asking.

“What?” Harry asks dumbly.

“I mean, I was hoping. That you would notice,” Louis says, rubbing the back of his head. “Far away,” reads the tattoo on the inside of his bicep that Harry hadn’t picked out yet. Distantly, he wonders where far away is, and whether Louis is going to or from it.

“Haven’t exactly been subtle, have I?”

“It’s okay–” Harry starts, still reeling.

“I’ll stop, if you want me to,” Louis cuts in, hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Stop what?” Harry needs him to properly say it. To know he’s not crazy.

“Oh.” Louis seems surprised by the question. “Like, flirting with you? I just thought, maybe, we might be on the same page there.”

Harry’s mouth falls open as his brain rushes to keep up with his senses.

“Read the situation wrong,” Louis says, too cheerfully. “I hope I didn’t put you off this place. I can even have somebody else ring you up, if you want.” He turns around, looking for an available coworker.

“No!” Harry blurts out, stretching his fingers towards Louis like he’s trying to stop him from stepping out into a busy street.

Louis whips back around and stares at him, eyes wide and vaguely fearful.

“No,” Harry repeats at a normal volume. “I’m sorry, I was just...well, shocked. You didn’t, though.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Read the situation wrong.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Louis’s mouth and Harry’s curves to match it.

“I like you.”

“I like you too,” Louis answers, and it sounds like clouds breaking. “Obviously.”

They grin stupidly at each other from across the counter, and Harry feels warm and whole.

“’m glad that’s settled,” Louis rasps after a few seconds, breaking their happy stalemate.

“Me too.”

“Maybe we should see each other outside of here sometime?”

“Yeah, I think I’d really like that.” The uneasiness and inadequacy Harry had anticipated never materializes. Louis is looking at him like _he’s_ the lucky one, and Harry is calm and hopeful.

“I’m off on Sunday again. Think I can steal you away from your book for a little while?”

“Yeah,” Harry exhales, still struggling to keep up. “Yeah, okay.”

“Here,” Louis says, pulling his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it, and then handing it to Harry. “Put your number in here and I’ll text you.”

Harry keys in his number and his full name, and, feeling bold, adds the pencil emoji next to it.

Louis grins when he sees it, then taps at the screen until Harry’s own phone buzzes.

“Okay, Harry Styles. Now you have me,” Louis says, and Harry cautions his eager heart not to take it literally.

“Louis Tomlinson,” he reads, loving the way it tastes in his mouth.

Just then a father and his small daughter come through the door, the child asking loudly and repeatedly for “a milkshake.” Harry and Louis share an amused look, the moment not quite broken, just diffused by the real world. Then Louis gets to work making Harry “something special,” his movements more languid and deliberate than usual.

Harry watches him intently, knowing the feeling. The air around him feels pleasantly heavy, thick with possibility and meaning. When Louis hands him a bubblegum pink smoothie, they collectively make the decision to let their fingers brush, and something buzzes underneath Harry’s skin. It’s mad and beautiful and small, and when Harry takes his leave with a “See you, Louis” and Louis raises his hand in farewell, he’s overwhelmed with so much peace that he doesn’t remember what he actually went there for until he’s back in his flat.

His mood boosted even higher by the decadent strawberries and cream drink he’s sipping, Harry reckons that it might be easier to broach the subject later. They’ll have some privacy then, and anyway, what’s the rush?

*****

The sun reappears on Sunday, bringing a few extra degrees with it. But as spring won’t give over to summer for another month or so, there’s still a persistent, gentle breeze. As Harry paces around the southeastern entrance to Hyde Park, he puts a tick in the “pro” column of his outfit.

Gemma had recovered quickly from the news that Harry had chickened out entirely on confronting Louis about their theory – though, to be completely fair to himself, Harry had actually been interrupted. He would have found the courage eventually. Really, he would have.

His phone started ringing with a FaceTime call two seconds after Harry’s “ _Didn’t happen, but I have a date,”_ text showed up as delivered, his sister greeting him with a high-pitched scream the likes of which he rarely heard from her. Harry grumbled when she demanded he show her the contents of his closet over the phone, though in truth, he was grateful for her meddling and confident that she knew it. Gemma looked up the weekend weather on her laptop and reasoned that Harry should be ready for both indoor and outdoor activities, appear casual but show off his personality, and “Above all, be approachable.” She’d drawn in an excited breath when Harry pulled a soft, faux-shearling vest from a shelf – something Nick had convinced him to buy when they’d been out shopping but that he’d not quite figured out how to wear.

It stretched the boundaries of his comfort zone, but Harry had been drawn to it at the time, pulled in by its soft piles and almost pastoral quality. Gemma wouldn’t have pushed him on it, he guesses, if she hadn’t watched him pet the fabric as he held it in his hands.

They’d ended up styling it with one of Harry’s newer pairs of black jeans, a fitted grey pocket t-shirt, and brown boots with equestrian details.

“Let the vest speak for itself,” Gemma had said, and, as usual, she was right.

Their plan hadn’t changed when Louis texted Harry on Saturday morning saying it was supposed to be nice on Sunday and would he fancy a walk in the park?

Harry smiled so hard to himself that his cheeks felt tight, charmed by Louis picking an activity that was so...him. Intimate, and unpretentious.

But something knocked at Harry, too, whispering that there’d be no distractions – no film, no food – that would help smooth the date along. But it didn’t take much determination to brush those anxious thoughts off. All he and Louis have done together so far is talk. And they’re pretty bloody good at it. Why should he be afraid of that now?

Harry pivots idly on the sidewalk, unsure what direction Louis is coming from. He watches two friends talking animatedly, swinging shopping bags, and smiles at them as they pass. The next time he looks down the street, he sees Louis walking towards him, and his breath catches.

Considering that he manages to be captivating in just his branded uniform, it’s a wonder Harry survives his first look at Louis in something else. Today, he’s clad in all black, minus the red and white plaid lining of his sleek bomber, peeking out where the jacket is unzipped and where he has the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hair is blown forward, then artfully mussed, curling around his sharp cheekbones. And it looks like Louis didn’t shave this morning, as he must do daily for work, a light dusting of stubble further defining his jaw and upper lip.

Under the lamps of the shop, Louis is stunning, all lightness. Out in the day, dressed to see Harry, Louis is something else entirely. He looks older, _sexier._

If he’d seen this person in a pub, there’s no way Harry would have ever gotten up the nerve to approach him.

Louis’s grin broadens when he sees Harry, and Harry thanks the universe that she didn’t let it happen that way.

“Hi,” he manages, unable to stop from panning down his body when Louis is standing in front of him. “You look...wow.”

Louis quirks up an eyebrow. “Not so bad yourself. May I?” He reaches a hand tentatively out to Harry’s torso, and Harry nods, not daring to breathe. Louis brushes his palm across the faux fur of the vest, over Harry’s side. “You’re so fuzzy.”

So when Gemma said “approachable,” what she really meant was “touchable.” Another checkmark for the pro column. Maybe even two.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting very long,” Louis says, Harry missing the ghost of his touch now that his hand is back at his side. “Sometimes this hair just goes into disaster mode. Refuses to do anything normal.”

“I like it,” Harry half-whispers, admiring the swirls of golden brown, thrilled by the thought of Louis wanting to look good for him.

“I bloody well hope so,” Louis teases. “Took me an hour. But I reckon it was worth it. Shall we?”

In every elaborate fantasy he squeezed in before this date, Louis offered his arm to Harry like a Jane Austen hero. But it’s 2019, and that’s ridiculous, so Harry settles for their triceps grazing as they turn to walk into the park.

“I can’t even remember the last time I was here,” Harry says when Louis leads them down one of the paths in front of them. He has no idea where they’re going, nor does he care.

“Aw, no, really?” Louis sounds genuinely disappointed. “One of my favorite places. Came here a lot when I was a kid, when we’d come visit.”

“Where’d you grow up?”

“Doncaster.” He turns his chin to look at Harry, wry smile on his face. “Guessing Manchester, from your accent?”

“Holmes Chapel, yeah.”

“That,” Louis laughs, “is a fairy tale name.”

“Pretty accurate, too. Everybody knew everybody. It was that kind of place.”

“Yep. I know the feeling. Practically needed spy training to keep your business to yourself.”

“Is that why you moved? It was too small?”

“Yeah, that. And after my mum died, it felt even smaller. There isn’t a corner of Donny that doesn’t make me think of her. And I could so easily see myself just living in the past if I stayed there, you know?”

The sun dapples through the trees and dances across Louis’s profile. He presses his lips together and swallows. Harry thinks of his own mother and her letters and how he’ll feel the day that they stop coming.

“’m sorry, Louis. You were really close?”

“The closest,” he says, perking up. “It was like...we just _understood_ each other, even when I was really little. She had me young, so I think I just knew – she needed me as much as I needed her. We barely ever fought. My friends used to think it was so weird.”

Harry watches Louis float a hand across a flowering bush as they pass, the small white blossoms oscillating in his wake.

“It’s not weird. That sounds nice.”

“Yeah, yeah, it was. And it still is, I mean, I know I’m lucky that I had her. She taught me everything. Made me curious. And I’d rather keep her memory in the things I do than live with a bunch of ghosts.”

“I can understand that. I’d want the same thing. With my mum, I mean.”

Louis hums in appreciation, then turns his torso to face Harry, apology writ large on his expression. “But bloody hell, listen to me. Isn’t there some first date rule against this? Telling all your sad stories right away?”

“I think that one’s about not bringing up your exes,” Harry points out, then smirks. “Do you get all your dating tips from _Jerry Maguire?”_

“That movie is full of helpful life advice!” Louis protests. “Like... if you’re going to date your only employee, you should at least offer her health insurance.”

“And you should never, under any circumstances, shoplift the pooty,” Harry says solemnly.

Louis snorts. “And you should never, under any circumstances, ever say that again.”

Harry laughs at himself. It’s easy, with Louis.

“I don’t mind, honestly,” he reassures. “You can tell me whatever you like. I just want to know more about you. Maybe not about your exes just yet, but...otherwise.”

“Nothing even worth mentioning there,” Louis says quickly. “Anyway, I want to know about _you,_ Harry. And why someone living in this beautiful city can’t remember the last time he’s been to Hyde Park. D’you have something against nature? Birds?”

“Now that you mention it, I’m pretty sure geese are the devil.”

“Nah, you just have to know how to talk to them,” Louis says earnestly.

Harry looks at him out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the rest of the joke. It doesn’t come.

“Then you can teach me.”

Louis beams at him. “Alright.”

They’ve just winded around a fountain when Harry spots another right ahead. While the greenery around the last spot was spare and clean, this section of the walk explodes with color, wild-looking yellow roses and trees with dusky pink buds, clusters of deep purple leaves springing out and bowing down just above the soil. In the center of it all, a statue of a nude female archer stands tall, bow taut and ready.

Louis comes to a stop in front of the fountain and gazes up at her. Harry follows suit.

“Who is she?”

“That’s Diana,” Louis says, with respect. “Goddess of the hunt. And a few other things. Animals. Children. The moon.”

“She has a lot on her plate.”

“Mmm. She can handle it, though. Did you know, Harry,” he asks, squinting up at Diana and gesturing like a uni professor, “that she conducts the movements of the moon by her chariot?”

“I didn’t,” Harry confirms, staring down at Louis fondly.

“It’s true. And her followers worshipped her by carrying their torches to her sacred lake at night and letting their lamplight mix with the moonlight on the water.”

Harry raises his index finger and opens his mouth to speak.

“If you mention _Tangled,”_ Louis cautions, “I’ll kill you.”

Harry mimes zipping up his mouth and throwing away the key, struggling against the giggle bubbling up inside him.

“And…” Louis turns away and trots over to plant of small round leaves and silky, violet-hued flowers. He plucks one of the buds and its stem and returns to Harry, holding it out in front of him. “They always–” Louis rises to his tiptoes and slides the stem behind Harry’s ear until it’s nestled safely in his curls. Harry holds in his breath, holds in everything. “–wore flowers in their hair when they did it.”

Louis lets his heels fall gently back to the earth, his cheeky smile fading into serenity across a few seconds. He doesn’t take a step back, however, and Harry’s right hand opens and closes at his own side, burning with its proximity to Louis’s waist. Harry allows his lips to part, the movement prompting Louis’s eyes to flick down to them, just for a fraction of a second.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Louis says suddenly, and the moment is gone. Or perhaps just postponed.

“Wha-what?”

Louis resumes walking, as if nothing had happened. Harry reaches up when he isn’t looking and pats the bloom in his hair, just to confirm that it did.

“Why don’t you come here?”

“Oh. Um, no real reason, really. I knew the only way I was going to get my novel done is if I just chipped away it, so I haven’t done much in the last couple of years besides work. Just sort of fell into a routine.”

“What about your mates? Don’t they get you out of the house?”

“My two best friends don’t live far, so we don’t see much besides the inside of the same pub,” Harry says, using the toe of his boot to kick a rock down the path. “I realize that this makes me sound extremely sad.”

“Not at all,” Louis shakes his head. “It’s not like you don’t have anything to show for it.”

Harry smiles at the ground, trying to keep it to himself. It hasn’t escaped his noticed that Louis has struck down his self-deprecation at every turn.

“I _do_ think, however, that you could do with more of a work/life balance,” Louis continues.

“How very corporate of you.”

“Oi! I passed that seminar with flying colors, I’ll have you know.”

“I bet you did,” Harry says, with a satisfied smirk. “Anyway.” He looks up at the tops of the trees, takes in the sounds of a leisurely Sunday in London, and imagines he can feel the warmth of Louis’s arm where it swings just inches from his. “This seems like a pretty good start.”

They weave through the lush, busy park, talking idly about what Harry’s characters have been telling him and about Louis’s more memorable customers, including the one who left an entire lemon in the tip jar, with no explanation. For a British sky, it’s remarkably clear, and the sun shines down on them without interruption. But Harry wouldn’t care if it disappeared completely, not when he has the melody of Louis’s laugh and the warm glow of his full attention to bask in. He does his best to take in their surroundings, wanting to love this place because it is loved by Louis, but his eye keeps being drawn back to the boy at his side.

“What?” Louis laughs, catching Harry looking at him. Again.

“Nothing,” Harry grins. “You just seem really happy here. It’s nice to see.”

Louis presses his lips together in a smile that scrunches up his whole face, then leads them around the perimeter of the Serpentine.

“Thank you for indulging me,” he says. “Letting me play tour guide, I mean.”

“Of course.” Harry would let Louis lead him into the Thames, but he’s not going to say that.

“Because I am. Happy here. Nice to share it with someone though, innit?”

Harry’s about to say something really, properly romantic – something that will come out perfectly and poetically, sweeping Louis off his Vans-covered feet. But then he’s dodging a small boy, about two years old, chasing a miniature football that’s bounced out in front of them.

It’s about to be lost to the water when Louis’ foot shoots out to block it. The little boy sees this, toddles to a stop, and looks up at Louis in wonder.

Louis bends down to pick up the ball and stays squatted to address the child.

“Here you go, little man,” he says, voice soft.

The boy reaches out with stubby fingers, staring at Louis and making that face babies do, where they look sweet, distant, and strangely wise – like they understand all the mysteries of the universe and are waiting for you to catch up.

He takes the ball, then seems to think for a moment. Louis waits patiently, sensing that the child wants something else from him. The little boy takes one tiny step closer and thrusts the ball back to Louis, then starts to waddle backwards towards the grass. Louis’s face lights up in realization, and he rises, placing the ball carefully on the inside of his foot.

“Okay. Ready?” he calls.

The boy nods, his chubby cheeks jiggling.

“Are you suuuure?”

The boy claps and squeals.

Louis lightly kicks the ball over to him, and the child goes running after it, giggling. Harry watches his dad scoop him up after the boy gets a hold of the ball again, then whisper something into his ear. Then father and son are waving at Harry and Louis, who wave back, Louis clucking about how cute the little guy is. Harry’s heart threatens to just pack it all in and give out.

“Have you always been that good with kids?” Harry asks a few moments later.

“I dunno. I like them, and they seem to like me. Probably because I’m short. Maybe they think I’m one of them.”

Harry chuckles.

“Do you have any siblings?”

“No, no, it was just me and mum. Wanted them though,” Louis says wistfully. “A whole bloody litter of them.”

“You would have been a great older brother,” Harry says, meaning it sincerely. He can picture it: Louis carting a sibling over each shoulder, reading bedtime stories and doing all the voices while some mini-version of him drools on his pajamas. “I, however, only have experience being the annoying little one.”

“Oh yeah? And whom were we terrorizing?”

“Gemma. She’s three years older.”

“Is she in London too?”

Harry nods. “She is. We hang out a lot.”

“You’re good friends,” Louis assesses.

“Yeah, the best really. Even when we were kids and we fought, I always felt like I had someone looking out for me, you know?”

“Does she still? Look after you?”

“If you mean do I ask her advice on pretty much everything, then yes,” Harry confesses, wanting to give his sister the credit she deserves. “You could say that.”

Louis raises a mischievous eyebrow. “Interesting. Did you ask her about today?”

“Maybe,” Harry says coyly.

“And?”

“And...she told me to be myself. Wear comfortable shoes.”

“Spot on, Gem,” Louis approves.

Harry sneaks another look at him, then gazes pointedly out into the water. “And she said that she could tell that I was really into this guy, so, I shouldn’t, and I quote, ‘blow it.’”

“That’s a good tip,” Louis says, innocently. Harry meets his eyes again, finding him looking pleased. “You’re not, by the way...and you can tell her that the feeling’s mutual.”

Harry’s made a habit out of hating first dates. Nick once called it part of his “brand,” whatever that means. He can’t begin to judge whether or not he has chemistry with a stranger, not when he’s concentrating on the position of his hands and trying to decide whether he’s talking too much. Without vanity, Harry knows he’s above average looking. Men seem to like his green eyes and his crooked smile, and that he’s usually taller than them, so it’s not that he feels particularly self-conscious in that area. It’s just that blind dates especially are an awful, backwards way to get to know someone, the simple act of getting drinks or coffee weighed down with too much pressure. He can’t remember leaving a single one feeling good about himself.

Zayn and Nick have been drilling it into him for years, though. If Harry wants to find somebody, he has to “open himself up,” and that apparently means actually using one or more of the several apps Nick downloaded to his phone when he wasn’t looking.

Strolling with Louis now, Harry smugly looks forward to telling them that he found another way.

Chasing that thought comes another, wilder one, formulating before he can quell it: That this could be the last first date Harry ever has to go on.

Whether that proves to be true or not – what are even the chances? – it’s far and away the best.

Harry drops his eyes from Louis’s face to his hand, open and facing Louis’s body. Casually, so casually, he lets his own move through space until they’re touching. Harry’s palm slides across Louis’s, eager to settle there. He watches as Louis stretches his hand wide so they can lace their fingers together, but they leap apart when they’re interrupted by a rude, ear-splitting “honk.”

“Oh, shit,” Harry gasps, taking a step back from the _enormous_ goose blocking their path.

“Aw, come on,” Louis soothes, laughter in his voice. “You’re know they’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

“Could you tell him that?” Harry jabs a thumb in the goose’s direction, then scurries back even further when it starts to walk toward him on its dinner-plate-sized feet.

Louis hides his smile behind the back of his hand, then goes to retrieve Harry, putting one arm around his lower back, taking Harry’s left hand in his, and pulling him gently forward. “Just...Here. Stay calm. Breathe.”

“I heard they can sense fear,” Harry mutters, staring the goose in his beady, lifeless eyes.

“Then stop being such a scaredy cat, how about that?”

“Easy for you to say,” Harry says miserably. “I get bit by one of these things at a birthday party back home and am emotionally scarred for life, and you... you’re the bird whisperer.”

“Aw,” Louis pouts. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it. Anyway, here’s what we’re going to do: We’re just going to talk to him, let him know we’re cool, right? We’re not trying to bother him.”

“Oh god, there’s more!” Harry exclaims as two other geese and a few ducks start to swarm behind their friend.

“They just want to see what’s going on,” Louis says smoothly, still holding onto Harry. “Heeey, big fella,” he says, addressing the boss goose. “I’m Louis, and this is Harry, and we’re just having a walk in the park.”

He flutters his feathers, making himself look bigger. Harry jerks in Louis’s grip, but Louis doesn’t let go, his hand making calming circles on Harry’s back. Harry wishes he could properly enjoy it.

“I know you’re protective. I get that,” Louis continues. “But trust me, we’re not going to hurt you or any of your mates, okay? And we don’t want your food.”

The goose settles, his feathers smoothing out. Harry looks on in awe. For all the world, it looks like he actually _understood_ Louis.

“In fact,” Louis says, letting go of Harry and moving towards one of the feed dispensers. “Harry here is going to give you a little snack.”

“Wait, what?”

The small gang of birds parts for Louis, who pulls a few coins out of his jacket pocket. “Come here, it’s okay,” he calls back to Harry.

Harry side steps towards Louis, ready to bolt if any of them makes a move.

“Give me your hand,” Louis whispers to Harry once he’s back at his side. Harry dumbly raises his right hand, palm up, and Louis maneuvers it to right under the spout. He turns the dial and small, unappetizing brown pellets rain into Harry’s hand.

“Go on,” Louis urges, closing his hand around Harry’s. “Make friends.”

Once again, Harry’s overwhelmed by his trust in this person – this person he barely knows. One measly lifelong fear of birds is no match for Louis Tomlinson. He has no idea how the rest of the city is still standing.

Harry turns back to the fowl, and Louis puts light pressure on his shoulders, urging him along.

“Nice birdies,” Harry whispers, crouching down slowly and opening his hand.

“There’s plenty for everybody,” Louis says, like a stern parent. “So don’t push. And don’t frighten Harry, please.”

Harry turns to look back at him, simultaneously baffled and charmed. Louis has one finger up in the air and he’s giving the birds the eye. If this is a bit, it’s gone on an awfully long time.

Belatedly, Harry realizes that he’s holding food out to a small, semi-wild flock and he’s hasn’t been pecked once. He swivels back around to find the largest goose right in front of him, calm and alert, waiting for permission.

“Okay. You can have some,” Harry says softly, self-consciously.

The bird’s neck curves gracefully downwards, and he delicately plucks a few pellets from Harry’s outstretched hand.

He isn’t being pecked to death. In fact, Harry doesn’t feel a thing. The goose quickly waddles to the side, letting the smaller birds have a go.

Harry may have a slight phobia, but he’s fairly confident that this isn’t common behavior.

But they take turns, like well-trained primary students on a day trip. It’s peculiar and wonderful, and Harry’s learning that that’s par for the course (pun definitely intended) when it comes to Louis. Whatever’s going on with him – whatever he is or isn’t – Harry isn’t ready to give it up.

The man himself squats down next to him, watching the cautious smile that breaks out across Harry’s face.

“I told you,” Louis says as a tiny, colorful duck claims the last pellet. “You just have to know how to talk to them.”

They distribute two more helpings of food, making a bit of a scene. Harry’d tried to imagine every possible way this day would go, but he never guessed it would include so many tourists taking pictures of him petting a swan, Louis giggling as its mate nibbles affectionately on one of Harry’s curls. Afterwards, they stop at the next public toilet so they can wash their hands, Harry acutely remembering the moment where he’d almost taken Louis’s and wondering how much time he should let pass before he tries again.

“Let’s see,” Louis says, azure eyes sparkling to rival the water, “We walked through the Rose Garden. We fed the birds. Next on the list for a proper Hyde Park day…” He points to a cart just off the path ahead of them, shaded by a red and white striped canopy. “An ice cream.”

 _“God_ yeah,” Harry groans, letting his head drop back a moment. “That sounds amazing.”

The sun is shining so fiercely that Harry’s almost hot in his cozy vest, plus he hasn’t eaten much today. But the smile briefly drops off of Louis’s face, and Harry could swear he sees his Adam’s apple bob up and down, a response appropriate to a less innocent reaction.

Interesting.

“Alright?” he can’t help teasing.

Louis finds his grin again, but his irises are a shade darker than before.

“I’m perfect,” he says lightly. “What flavor do you want?”

Harry sidles up next to him in the short queue, standing closer than necessary and enjoying this.

Louis clears his throat, eyes locked on the gelato case. “I usually go for stracciatella, which is just a fancy word for chocolate chip.”

“I’m a pistachio man, myself,” Harry drawls, dropping his voice on purpose, just to see...

Louis’s gaze flicks up to him, and Harry bears down, slightly drunk with power. Drunk with the knowledge, after all that pining, that he has this effect on Louis.

“Divisive,” Louis whispers. “You either love it or you hate it.”

“Oh, I love it,” Harry says, letting his eyes roam all over Louis’s face, cataloging every change.

“Next, please,” the man at the cart calls loudly, probably not for the first time. Harry and Louis turn towards him like they’re resurfacing.

“Know what you’d like?”

“Two scoops of stracciatella and two scoops of pistachio, please,” Harry says, recovering first, stepping around Louis to the register, and taking a tenner out of his wallet. Louis runs his hand through his hair and gives Harry a small smile while the vendor goes about making their cones.

“Enjoy,” the man says, and they resume their walk, a little slower now that they’re simultaneously eating their gelato.

“Thanks,” Louis offers after a few seconds of silence. “You didn’t have to get mine.”

“I wanted to,” Harry says seriously.

“I invited you, so I should have...I don’t know, I just froze, I guess.”

“Froze?”

Louis’s cheeks pinken, and he ducks his chin. “It’s a little overwhelming, being with you. You have no idea, Harry. No idea how much I look forward to seeing you. It’s the best part of my day, most days.”

“Louis.”

Harry stops abruptly, catching Louis’s arm – the one not holding his ice cream.

Louis comes willingly, eyes wide and vulnerable, the unflappable, self-assured boy from the smoothie shop fading into the background for a moment.

“It’s the best part of my day too,” Harry says, keeping a loose grip on Louis’s elbow, holding his gaze.

Louis tosses off an unconvincing laugh. “You’re writing a great novel. You’re brilliant. You’re going to be famous!”

Harry takes a step closer, his hand sliding up Louis’s arm and coming to rest on the back of his neck. Louis hitches in a breath.

“The best part,” he repeats, before leaning down and brushing his lips over Louis’s.

It’s light and chaste, but they’re both sticky and sweet from the gelato, so the kiss lingers.

Louis’s free hand drifts up to Harry’s upper chest, pressing into the plushness of his vest. Harry resists the urge to dart out his tongue and lick the thin coating of sugar and cream from Louis’s mouth.

They’re in public. It’s their first date. And his cone is already melting onto his hand.

It feels nice, to be a little out of control.

Harry pulls back reluctantly, watching Louis’s eyes flutter open, his long eyelashes casting long shadows.

A lazy smile spreads across his face, and Harry takes it as a compliment that Louis is slow to notice the gelato dripping down his hand and onto his forearm.

Oh, but once he does. Louis brings the cone back to his mouth and uses his tongue to get it back under control. Then he shifts it to his other hand and cleans himself up, unfortunately for Harry, by sliding each finger into his mouth, one by one.

“Look alive, Hazza,” he smirks when he’s finished, looking pointedly from Harry’s tortured expression to his half-melted cone. “You’re making a fucking mess.”

*****

“We can’t leave before we see the Princess Diana fountain,” Louis says, tugging their joined hands in the direction of the bridge. (After they washed the gelato residue off in a water fountain and dried their hands on their jeans, Louis had taken Harry’s and not let go.)

“Wait,” Harry protests as Louis rushes across. “Give me a second, I want to take a photo.”

He comes to a stop halfway over the bridge, forcing Louis to halt too, and takes his phone from his back pocket. He opens the camera app and holds it horizontally, snapping a few shots of the landscape, the mid afternoon light glinting off the water.

“C’mere,” Harry says, before he can think the better of it, turning himself and Louis around until their backs are to the stone railing. He puts the camera into selfie mode and holds the phone out and at an upwards angle.

“I can just take one of you,” Louis blurts out, and Harry frowns, bringing his arm back into his body.

“I don’t want one of me. I want one of us.”

He tries not to sound wounded, he really does. But from the look on Louis’s face, he can tell he failed. Louis isn’t swayed, and Harry starts desperately backpedaling.

“No, I get it,” he mutters, locking his phone again. “Just a first date. It’s too soon.”

Louis makes a little frustrated sound, then grabs a hold of the inner edges of Harry’s vest and pulls, demanding his attention.

“Harry, I want you to hear me, okay? I’m going to remember today for a long time. You haven’t done anything wrong or moved too fast. If that’s ever the case, I’ll tell you. Deal?”

Harry deflates and rests his weight on the railing, which has the effect of pulling Louis closer. “Deal.”

“I’m just not a selfie guy,” Louis continues, raking his hand through the part of the vest covering Harry’s heart. “You understand, right?”

Harry doesn’t though. If it’s not looking like a couple that Louis minds, then what’s the harm? Harry would promise to keep it to himself, not post it anywhere. But something about Louis’s demeanor compels him to drop it.

“I understand.”

“Thank you,” Louis smiles, thumbing over Harry’s chin. “Come on, then.” He sets off again, pulling Harry behind him. “The People’s Princess awaits.”

Within a few minutes, they reach the circular fountain, an infinite tribute with no beginning and no end. Harry was here once, but he doesn’t remember it well. So he takes it in like it’s new, and in the presence of Louis, everything feels like it is.

“Me mum loved her,” Louis says, with affection. “I was only six when she died, so all my memories are hers.”

“She must have been so sad.”

“Yeah,” Louis confirms. “I remember having the TV on and her crying. She always talked about how many people Diana helped, even when she was going against the monarchy to do it.”

“She wasn’t their favorite.”

“No. But she had resources. She had a platform. And I really respect that she used it. Fuck tradition, right?”

Louis lowers himself to the stone, gentle pressure bringing Harry down with him.

“Mmm,” Harry agrees, resting on the edge and running his hand over the engraving.

They sit with her for a few minutes, Harry staying quiet because he suspects Louis is also sitting with his mum. He listens to the water flow and waits for his sign, getting it when Louis reaches over and squeezes Harry’s hand, whispering a “Let’s go.”

Harry sees the bustle and hears the noise of Kensington Road far too soon. His pulse begins to quicken as he anticipates re-entry into the world, tempted for a moment to chuck out reality and just stay here, wandering around this tranquil, green place forever, preferably still holding Louis’s hand.

The sight of traffic in the distance reminds him too, that he’s no closer to getting the truth than he was when he got here.

But the more time he spends with Louis, the faster he’s falling, and the less Harry wants to risk ruining everything and breaking the spell.

So maybe he can’t just flat out ask...but Harry can hint. If he ever wants to really know Louis, he has to.

“Lou…” he starts, and Louis grins at the nickname. “About the birds.”

“Yeah?”

“How did you do that?”

“Like I said,” Louis says, all nonchalance. “You just have to let them know you’re not a threat.”

“But they _listened_ to you, Louis. I was almost convinced they understood what you were saying.”

To Harry’s surprise, Louis nods. Instead of laughing at him, Louis nods.

“Maybe they did. There’s a lot about this universe that we don’t understand. Maybe we’re never supposed to. I kind of like it that way.”

“Me too,” Harry says, content, somehow. “I think you’re a mystery, Louis Tomlinson.”

“Is that a deal breaker?” Louis asks, looking at him sideways, one corner of his mouth tugging upward.

“No,” Harry answers soundly, on some level shocked that Louis even has to ask. “No, it really isn’t.”


	5. Chapter 5

Harry had meant it, unequivocally. It doesn’t matter what or who Louis is, not really, because to Harry, he’s a safe space. He’s an escape from overthinking and aimless self-sabotage. He has him feeling more like himself than Harry does with anyone who’s not his mum or his sister. He’s the cool-hot burn that shot through Harry when Louis kissed him, and again when Louis had dragged his lips across Harry’s cheek and hugged him tightly goodbye.

But he’s still turning the date over in his mind – the good, the _really_ good, the unexplainable.

Examined individually, what Harry is privately calling “the incidents” are not entirely out of the ordinary. Louis can calm animals with his voice, fine. Harry finds his voice calming too. In fact, he’d pay Louis to come over and read his drafts aloud in his clear, bell-like rasp, if Harry didn’t know that he’d end up pushing him back onto his mattress and ditching his prose in three sentences flat.

Children are drawn to him – seem almost entranced by him. It wasn’t just the boy with the ball. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry had noticed others, pausing their play or looking up from their juice boxes, to watch the pair of them walk past. He hadn’t said anything, because how could he possibly phrase it? But when Louis thought Harry was distracted, he’d acknowledge them with a subtle smile or a low, inconspicuous wave. Almost as if he’d been expecting it.

As for Diana the archer, well. Who _didn’t_ go through a mythology phase in primary? The Roman and Greek gods were like comic book characters, with powers to be memorized and connections to be cataloged. Comic book characters who occasionally mated with animals in ponds or fields, but still.

_Anyway, seems to me like he wants you to know._

Louis had only seemed to be hiding once. There’s no way that someone with a bone structure like that could be anti-selfie, Harry determined at the time and still maintains. But it hadn’t seemed worth it to push Louis on it, not when he’d shared so much of himself with Harry, invited him into something that was almost like a ritual.

He tries not to dwell on it, nor on the date’s intimate but abrupt end. Harry had barely recovered from the scrape of Louis’s stubble across his face before Louis was disappearing into the crowd of pedestrians on Kensington, leaving Harry so dazed that he circled the tube entrance twice before actually locating it.

Louis was strange, that was certain. But could Harry really say that _he_ wasn’t? Could anyone?

The first thing Harry does when he gets home, ignoring Sadie’s resonant yowls for her dinner, is to disentangle the purple flower from his hair and press it into the center of the first published copy of _Ever Since New York,_ refusing to beat himself up for being sentimental. (It’s his brand.) He slides it back into its place in his small bookcase, the shelves bowing with the weight of his collection. Harry’s perpetually at the maximum amount of books that he can fit it his flat; buying a new one always means giving an old one away.

After spooning a can of wet food into a grateful Sadie’s ceramic dish, he pulls off his vest and neatly folds it, then swaps his skinny jeans for a loose pair of joggers and settles down at his laptop. Harry lifts the lid, sneaking a glance at his phone screen while the device wakes up, quelling his pang of disappointment at the lack of notifications by reminding himself that it’s been less than an hour since he and Louis parted.

Taking a centering breath, Harry dives back into his outline, scrolling around until he finds the chapter he wants to work on tonight.

Two pages done and the buzz of his phone pulls Harry out of the story he’s telling – one about a young girl in a small town who’s lonelier than she’d ever admit, so intent is she on being there for everyone around her. He picks it up to find a near-frantic text from Gemma asking for a debrief call. Harry shoots off an answer taking a rain check on Facetiming until tomorrow, at the same time assuring his sister that Louis was a perfect gentleman. She follows up with three crystal ball emojis and four question marks, and Harry huffs a laugh.

 _No doubt in my mind,_ he types.

Gemma sends so many follow-up questions that Harry silences his phone, eager to get this character to the person who’s going to see past her sunny exterior. He stays at the keyboard for another two hours, channeling everything Louis – everything _him_ and Louis – into this vignette, not wanting to break the thread of inspiration. Then his eyelids get heavy and so do his wrists, and Harry decides to call it a night. He picks up his phone to set an alarm, and there it is. It’s not a surprise, but the relief he feels sends him into a spontaneous 360 spin, his socks sliding over his hardwood floor.

 _I want to take you out properly,_ Louis’s text reads, without preamble. _Tomorrow, if you can. Let me pick you up.xx_

From where she sits on the bed, Sadie’s expression says that she gives Harry’s floor exercise a 2.0.

“Oh no,” he says triumphantly, wagging a finger in his cat’s face. “You’re not raining on my parade tonight, Sadiekins.”

She squints at him, then looks away, determining that he’s not worth the trouble.

Harry reads the message again, a mild heat pooling in his belly as he tries to picture Louis writing it. He lives alone too, Harry’d found out today. It set him off wondering about what kind of space Louis would want for himself, the kinds of things he would surround himself with. Harry guesses it would be tidy but eclectic, full of objects that carry meaning – things that remind Louis of home and of his mother, but also things that interest him, that he’s collected over time and is still trying to work out. There’s a peculiarity about him that beckons Harry closer.

_“Maybe we’re never supposed to. I kind of like it that way.”_

In Harry’s mind’s eye, Louis is lying on his back on his bed now, plaid pajama pants and bare feet, his phone held over his face as he waits for Harry’s answer.

If Harry were to follow Zayn’s hard-and-fast post-first date rule, he’d be waiting for a minimum of 12 hours.

Unacceptable. Stupid, and unacceptable.

 _I’m free and I would love that,_ Harry texts back.

He could be making a faux pas, but he couldn’t be arsed. The thing is, if Louis _likes_ those games – actually likes them – he’s not the person Harry thought he was. When it comes to games, there’s always a loser, and Harry would prefer to just leap over that trap altogether.

Three dots immediately pop up in the lower left corner of his screen. Harry bites down so hard on his smile that it leaves a mark.

_*****_

Almost 24 hours later and Harry’s standing in the middle of his bedroom, trying to avoid the magnetic pull that the grey and black hairs Sadie leaves on every surface of his flat have to his person.

The nerves are there, somewhere deep down. But they aren’t _unbearable._ He saw Louis just this afternoon, figuring that the fact that they have a dinner reservation was no reason to skip his daily snack. If Sharon’s face was any indication, the two of them were beyond obvious. Harry could see her out of the corner of his eye, smiling beatifically at them while she pretended to mop the seating area.

Harry and Louis exchanged soft, shy “heys,” weighty with already-spoken attraction.

“I’m gonna make you something light,” Louis explained, his fingertips tapping on the counter as if he were trying to keep himself from reaching out touching Harry’s hand where it rested, just inches away. “If that’s alright? We should come hungry tonight.”

“Okay,” Harry assented, willing to accept a cup full of angry bees if Louis looked at him like that while he handed it over.

“They have great bread,” Louis said, tilting his head flirtatiously.

“Okay,” Harry repeated, his own grin growing, unable to do anything but agree with Louis on every point.

Holding his airy matcha, Harry floated home on the promise of Louis’s “See you later,” followed by a confirmation of Harry’s address.

The last time a date picked Harry up at his home was, um, never. Chivalry was so dead, he’d feel lucky if they saved him a bar stool.

Louis may be aware of the rules, he may not be. Either way, he disregards them. The fine line between showing adequate interest and scaring someone off was a big topic of conversation with Nick and Zayn, and Harry thought that finding that line sounded exhausting. But Louis didn’t seem to care how Harry interpreted his offer. And Harry knows that he wouldn’t have been offended if Harry had preferred to just meet him at the restaurant. But he instantly liked the idea of having Louis in his space, in a moment that didn’t come with a physical presumption. With only half an hour between his arrival and the reservation, they’d hardly have time. He just wants to see how Louis fits. Perfectly, he presumes.

Harry examines himself one more time in the mirror, straightening the velvet-accented lapels of his black jacket. Gemma had happily reported for stylist duty once again, encouraging him to pair the double-breasted suit that he bought after graduation in anticipation of important book parties that never materialized with a bright pink button-down, which gave the whole look a bold, youthful vibe. He’d even pulled out the shoe shine kit that Robin had given him on his 21st birthday, buffing his black patent Chelsea boots until Sadie could see herself in them.

His buzzer goes off as he’s applying a swipe of coconut lip balm, his secret weapon against windy days. Harry glances at the bottle of red and two glasses he set out on the table as he goes to buzz Louis in and open his front door a crack. He suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands, hearing Louis’s footfalls on the stairwell. His eyes dart around, landing on a pile of junk mail on the arm of his sofa. Pointlessly, he tosses it underneath the thing, immediately regretting it when he realizes he’ll have to retrieve all those envelopes later.

He’s still half bent down when Louis pushes in the door and says his name.

Harry unfolds himself abruptly, now looking at the most beautiful thing that’s ever been in his flat.

Louis is in his house. The place where he lives. He’s standing right inside the door that Harry double locks every time he comes and goes. He just stepped over the mat that Gemma coaxed Harry into buying, which says “Don’t Stop Be Leaving” and speaks to his love of both puns and Journey.

And he looks fucking incredible.

“Harry,” Louis says, shaking his head and moving closer. “You clean up good.”

“Speak for yourself,” he counters, taking in Louis’s slim cut black suit, the sleeves pushed up his forearms. (He gets why he likes to show them off, all ropey muscle and masculine tattoos.) The plain black t-shirt he wears underneath has a low, wide collar that dips low enough to expose half of his chest tattoo, which makes Harry’s mouth go instantly dry. His favorite part of the ensemble, however, is the black and white printed pocket square that breaks up the monochrome – a left-of-center detail that makes Louis Louis, this unexpected, undefinable force that just dropped into Harry’s life.

He has some color from the park, Harry notices, his face and arms tinted golden brown. He’s luminous and healthy and alive, and it’s been so long since anyone but Harry and Sadie has been inside these four walls that the whole place suddenly feels brighter, brimming with energy.

The current of it ripples through his body. If Louis were to touch him now, they’d make sparks.

“Er, d’you want some wine?” Harry gestures towards the table.

“Sure,” Louis says, not even bothering to glance at the bottle. “We have time.”

Harry shoots him a small smile, then goes about removing the cork, careful not to fling any droplets of Cabernet onto his pink cuffs. In his current reality, it ought to be impossible, but you never know.

Louis draws up next to him, holding the bases of the glasses steady while Harry pours. He smells of spice and sandalwood and a hint of florals, just like he did in the park. But it’s headier here, with no wind to carry any of it away and Louis’s skin warm from what must have been a brisk walk.

Harry helplessly turns into it, grazing Louis’s body as he pivots to face him so they can clink glasses.

“We can sit,” Harry suggests after they cheers each other and take a sip. “There’s cat hair,” he adds, looking at the couch. “’m sorry. I tried, with the lint...thing? I don’t know where it comes from. She’s not even that big.”

“I’m not worried about it,” Louis says, promptly plopping himself down on one end of the love seat. “We’ll both have it, yeah? Solidarity.”

He looks around the room, then drops his head between his legs to peer under the couch. “Where is she?”

“Oh,” Harry says, suddenly the embarrassed parent of a shy child. “She usually doesn’t come out when other people are here, unless she knows them really well. Keep your eyes peeled though, she likes to run between her hiding places for some reason.”

“Strategic,” Louis grins.

“Exactly. The enemy can’t find you if you’re always on the move.”

“What’s her name?”

“Sadie.” Harry lowers himself to the couch, a respectful half a foot away from his guest.

“Sadie,” Louis repeats. “That’s sweet. Is it from something? A book?”

“No–” Harry’s cut off when Sadie, who’d snuck up while they were talking, jumps up into Louis’s lap, standing sideways with two paws on each of his thighs.

“Awww.” Louis melts, immediately. “Hey there, pretty girl.” Sadie accepts his scritches brazenly, letting her eyes fall close and her chin tip up.

Harry refuses to be jealous of his own pet.

“What a love,” Louis purrs. Sadie purrs too.

Shameless.

“She _never_ does this,” Harry marvels. “Even when my sister’s over. She has to like, check her out for a while. To make sure she’s not a pod person.”

Louis raises his eyebrows. “Maybe she’s a guys’ girl, eh? Cats can be picky like that. How is she with men?”

“Um.” Harry feels his cheeks heat up. He rests his elbows on his knees and gazes into his glass. “Not a lot of data on that, I’m afraid.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Harry pauses, turning his head to find an open expression on Louis’s face. “It’s not a big thing, I just don’t have many people over. Dates or whatever.”

“Well, I feel very honored then,” Louis says, sincerely. “Personal spaces are really important. It’s totally understandable to be protective.”

“It’s not _just_ that,” Harry says, parsing out his words carefully. “There’s other stuff. We don’t have to get into it now–”

“Harry, we don’t have to get into it _ever,_ okay? You don’t owe me an explanation. You don’t owe anybody an explanation.”

Sadie vacates Louis’s lap, seeming to understand that a serious conversation that she wants no part of is afoot.

“I just wanted you to know…if it seems like I don’t do this a lot,” Harry waves his hand in the space between the two of them, “it’s because I don’t.”

“That’s not a problem for me,” Louis says, casually. “I’m having a good time. Are _you_ having a good time?”

“Yes…” Harry drawls, suspicious that it can be that easy.

“Then that’s all that matters, right?” He takes another drink of his wine. “This is nice.”

“Glad you like it.”

Harry watches Louis as he leans back against the couch, looking thoughtful.

“I’m happy to listen if there’s anything you wanna tell me,” he says after a pause. “But I need you to know that I don’t have any expectations, yeah? It feels like you’re apologizing for something, and you don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, wincing when when Louis gives him a warning look. “I think I can be a bit on the defensive.”

“Have other people given you a hard time or summat?”

Harry takes another gulp. Liquid courage. “A little. But I think I do it to myself, really.”

“What do you mean?”

“Um, I compare myself. To my friends, other guys my age. And I know I’m different. So I get in my head about it. And then I’m constantly wondering, like, what people are thinking but aren’t saying.”

“Everybody’s different, Harry. Dating...it’s fucking complicated. We’re all just doing our best, you know?”

“I do,” Harry nods. “You’re right.”

Louis downs the rest of his glass and grins at him, jutting his chin towards Harry, prompting him to do the same.

“I’ll tell you exactly what I’m thinking right now, how’s that?”

“Okay. Sure,” Harry says, taking Louis’s empty glass and returning them both to the table. When he angles himself back towards Louis, Louis reaches out and takes one of his hands.

“I’m thinking,” he begins, brushing over Harry’s knuckles with his thumb and staring straight into his eyes, “about how happy I am that I asked you out again tonight, and that you said yes. I’m thinking about how handsome you look in pink. And, to be one hundred percent honest, yes, I’m also thinking about breadsticks.”

Harry laughs, and feels some of the tension leave his body.

“Just a little,” Louis says, cheeky. “Mostly about you though.”

Harry shifts his hand so they can thread their fingers together, then tugs in the direction of the door.

“Then we better go. Make some more room up there.”

Louis doesn’t budge. Harry has several inches on him, but he’s solid and unexpectedly built, and he’s apparently not yet ready to leave the sofa.

“Harry. Are you jealous of a bread basket?” He playfully searches Harry’s expression.

“Depends,” he drawls. “Do they have those little focaccias?”

Louis leans back and hums with anticipated pleasure. “Olive and sun-dried tomato. I might fight you for the last one, actually.”

“Okay, now I’m officially jealous,” Harry smirks.

“Ah, but you see: I’ll never have to choose between you and bread, so it’s a moo point.”

“A cow’s opinion, of course.”

“Right,” Louis says, looking far too proud of himself. “I choose you _and_ bread, which is basically what tonight is all about.”

“Kiss me,” Harry says suddenly, because it sounds like this is going to be a long dinner, and because he feels like it.

Louis’s answer is immediate. “Yeah, okay.”

He scooches forward on the sofa and leans in, the hand that’s not holding Harry’s coming to lightly rest just above his knee. Harry swallows and tries to think of England, his impetuous request not accounting for how late it would make them if Louis got him hard right here, right now. Then Louis’s lips are on his, the pressure sweet and perfect, and thoughts of any and all countries fly out of his head.

Pressed to make a call, Harry couldn’t say which one of them opened his mouth first, but tongues soon get involved. Louis tastes like black currant and a little bit of licorice, and Harry wants to be drunk. When the kiss deepens, he slides his hand up into Louis’s hair, grasping the bit of length in the back. Louis makes a soft, desperate noise into his mouth and presses Harry’s body back and arching over the arm of the sofa.

The restaurant probably delivers, right?

“Mmm,” Harry mumbles against his lips, pushing the heel of his hand against Louis’s shoulder.

Louis sits back a bit, all flush and swollen lips. Harry’s protest catches in his throat, because there’s just no question that he wants. He wants Louis. Now or tomorrow or next year. What a waste all of the rest of it was, trying to convince himself that his lukewarm attractions to other men were his problem, when this is what he was waiting for.

But there’s something about Louis that seems fleeting and ephemeral, like he could just vanish at any moment, back to whatever secret garden he came from.

“We should stop,” he whispers. “For now.”

“Of course. Whatever you want, Harry.” No offense taken.

“I want you,” Harry says emphatically. “I do. But I want more than _this_...I want to eat bread.”

“Okay,” Louis chuckles. “You know I’m on board with that.”

“No,” Harry protests, shaking his head in frustration. “That’s not what I meant to...I know it would be, like, the romance novel thing to do. Skip dinner, be spontaneous. And I don’t want you to think that I’m not...I think about you like this all the time.”

“Likewise, love,” Louis says, tucking a curl behind Harry’s ear.

“But I want to go on a _date._ God, I don’t think I’ve ever said that before. But there’s so much I want to know about you, Lou. And I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.”

“Curly, listen to me: no matter what we do and when, I never had any intention of this being a one-time thing.”

Harry smiles gratefully and squeezes Louis’s hand, already fond of the new nickname.

“And anyway,” Louis continues. “We have to go out on the town, because we look smashing and everyone else will be sick with jealousy.”

He looks down at his thighs, now dotted with the results of Sadie’s constant shedding.

“Or we will again soon. By the way, you said you had a lint brush?”

*****

After Louis and Sadie say a lengthy goodbye that makes Harry’s heart clench, they don their overcoats and head out. At the bottom of the stairs, Louis waits until the outer door closes behind them, then links his arm with Harry’s for their stroll to the restaurant. At night, in the city, it’s a little less Jane Austen than his fantasy and a little more Harry’s mum and stepdad, saying goodbye to Harry, Gemma, and the sitter before they went to see a show at the local theater. And it’s no less good for that.

It’s a short walk, and they don’t feel the need to talk for most of it. Louis communicates direction through touch, and Harry feels fully safe being led by him.

The restaurant itself is cozy and warm, one of those neighborhood institutions Harry had never gotten around for checking out. (Possibly because the oxblood curtains and twinkly lights of its facade scream “date spot,” and promise an intimacy that he wasn’t ready for and that no one else deserved.) Louis looks confident and at home as he greets the host and asks about their reservation. There isn’t anywhere he doesn’t automatically fit, Harry’s solitary flat included.

Louis turns and smiles at Harry when the host picks up two menus and a wine list and begins to lead them to their table. He’s even more beautiful in the restaurant’s carefully orchestrated romantic lighting, and a sudden rush of pride to be with him moves through Harry.

They’re seated in the back corner at a well-appointed two-top. From here, they can see the whole restaurant, but only certain sections can see them, which gives it an air of limited privacy. Louis reaches the table first and pulls out a chair for Harry, and he can tell that the host approves.

“Gentlemen, your server will be with you shortly,” he says grandly, as he hands them their menus, then sets the wine list down in the center. “Enjoy your evening.”

“Thank you,” Harry answers, almost smug with contentment. Louis peers at him from behind his menu, clearly amused. The glow from the tea lights between them darkens his eyes a shade, and Harry mentally adds “gorgeous shape shifter” to his growing list of Louis theories.

Whatever lingering doubts Harry may have had about hitting pause back at his flat dissipated as soon as his blood calmed down and his skin stopped buzzing. (A situation that was not helped at all by Louis gently and meticulously rubbing his suit down with a lint brush, eyebrows knit in concentration.) This was worth it.

Somehow, the restaurant is both quiet and bustling; it’s almost full, but there no parties of more than four people. And most tables around them are pairs, speaking in hushed tones, sneaking looks at one another between bites of cavatelli. Harry even sees a man feed his preening companion a bite from his fork, which he had thought only happened in movies anymore.

A lot of guys, he reckons, would worry about their dates reading too much into being taken to a place like this at the beginning of...can he even call it a relationship? Louis, on the other hand, is utterly relaxed, introducing himself and Harry to their server when she comes over to tell them about the specials.

They order more wine, sticking with red. When the server comes back with the corked bottle, Louis insists that Harry be the taster, watching him fondly as Harry swirls and sniffs the decadent chianti, pretending to know what he’s doing.

It’s been ages since he had a dinner out, and Harry stops just short of wanting everything. Spoiled for choice, he urges Louis to order for them, everything to share. He trusts Louis’s taste, after all, and it’s never steered him wrong. Just after their server leaves to put in their starters, a bus boy arrives with the fabled bread basket, and it is indeed as magnificent as promised.

“See?” Louis asks, wielding a chunk of crusty Italian loaf in one hand and reaching across the table to squeeze Harry’s fingers with the other. “You and bread. My mission is complete.”

Just a few weeks ago, Harry would have rather taken nine years of P.E. over again rather than stare into someone’s eyes for an hour – in public – to a steady soundtrack of Rat Pack standards. He can _write_ a romance, and the Netflix algorithm certainly knows that’s his preferred genre of film. He cries at weddings – unfailingly, even if he barely knows the couple. He loves love, in theory.

But in practice, he’s just never been able to give himself over to it. The few times he’s let himself be wooed, it’s like he left his own body and watched from above. And floating Harry found all of it thoroughly embarrassing.

“You are _worth_ it, though,” Zayn said to him after Harry regaled him with the story of his third and final date with a financial planner, who’d actually suggested they read Pablo Neruda to each other underneath the stars. “Why are you so skeptical of anybody who wants to treat you well? Anyway, _you’re_ the literature guy.”

“It was just...too much,” was all Harry had to say for himself in response, a wave of his hand shutting Zayn up.

But Louis, with his jaunty pocket square and squinty-eyed smile and service industry salary, isn’t putting on an act. And the reason Harry knows that is because Louis _actually gives a shit._ Ten to one, Neruda is finance guy’s standard third date move. He didn’t know or care whether Harry was into it, and Harry’s pretty sure he was projecting pretty strong we’re-not-at-the-verse-stage vibes.

So it’s as shocking to him as it would be to his friends (soon, he’ll tell them soon) that Harry, who’d usually be pushing for a group hang or 6 o’clock drinks for date two, is currently letting himself be wined and dined in a place that probably sees minimum three marriage proposals per night.

For whatever reason, he can note the novelty of that, but not dwell on it. Harry isn’t compelled to give himself an internal director’s commentary track when he’s with Louis, because he’s having too much fun.

Neither of them hesitates when their food arrives; Louis starts by cutting a massive, meaty stuffed pepper in half, putting one piece on Harry’s plate, then digging voraciously into his share. Harry eats with similar abandon, groaning periodically at the perfectly seasoned, abundantly portioned dishes, which elicits some notable eyebrow raises from Louis. The pendulum of the conversation swings back to the lighter side, and they fill the gaps between bites with school stories and embarrassing moments. Harry learns more about where Louis came from. And though no amount of answers could possibly fully explain _him,_ it’s an investigation that Harry will never close.

He appreciates it that Louis doesn’t argue when Harry says he’d like to split the check. By the time they settle up, collect their coats, and step out into the cool air, it’s nearly ten. Nearly ten, and an indeterminate amount of years since Harry’s been this happy.

He turns to Louis, possibly to tell him so, finding his jaw set and eyes steely. Louis says nothing, just backs him up slowly until Harry is up against the side of the restaurant, away from the windows and out of view of the remaining diners.

“Are we still doing that thing, where I tell you what I’m thinking?” he rasps, his blown pupils surrounded by two thin circles of stormy blue.

“Um, yes,” Harry whispers, dizzied and thrilled by the mood shift.

“Good,” he says, sliding his hands underneath Harry’s open coat to grip his hips. “To be clear: just being in the same room with you drives me crazy. In a good way. And I know this is really new, and I don’t want to freak you out. But I need you to know that I’m yours.”

Harry hitches in a breath, but it’s just surprise. There’s no pit of fear in his stomach, no impetus to run.

“And that doesn’t mean that I can’t wait or be casual. I can do whatever you want. But I’m personally not interested in seeing anybody else.”

“God, no.” Harry wraps his arms around Louis’s neck. “There’s no one else. Not even close.”

He ducks down and kisses Louis hard, as if to prove it. Louis matches his intensity, letting his teeth drag across Harry’s tongue when he thrusts it into his mouth.

Louis pushes Harry’s hips firmly against the wall with his hands before letting the rest of his body take over.

And this time Harry doesn’t try to focus his thoughts elsewhere. They may be in public, but his bed is only a few blocks away, and he wants Louis in it. With Louis pinning him in with his pelvis, Harry’s cock starts to fill up, and he feels, against his thigh, Louis getting hard too.

This is happening.

“Lou,” Harry manages, when they break for air.

“Mmm?”

“I hate to say this. I really _really_ do. But we have to talk.”

“Yeah, sure,” Louis says, stepping back respectfully. “Of course.” He arranges his coat strategically, so as not to offend some innocent passerby. Harry looks down at the outline of his own half-hard cock pressing against his slacks and does the same.

“Away from here, though. Let’s just walk.” He grabs Louis’s hand and starts them on the longer route.

“Is there something wrong?” Louis asks, once they’re well away from the restaurant and their breathing is less labored.

“Not wrong, no,” Harry begins the conversation he’s never had before. “I really want to take you home with me tonight. But there’s some stuff you should know.”

“Okay,” Louis says, tone measured.

“Okay. So, um, like I was saying earlier. I don’t date a lot. But I also don’t have a lot of sex. I haven’t _had_ a lot of sex.”

He takes a deep breath and glances over his shoulder at Louis, who doesn’t look shocked _or_ disgusted.

“It’s not that I don’t like it. And I feel sexual attraction, as you could probably tell. It just hasn’t been a big part of my life. When people say things like, ‘It’s been two weeks since I’ve had a fuck and I’m about to explode!’, I just don’t identify with that. Not at all. I’ve had some pretty good sex too, so I’m not like, unaware of the benefits or anything. But I don’t have a regular need for it, and I haven’t met many people I want to do it _with.”_

Louis puts supportive pressure on Harry’s hand, but stays quiet, waiting for him to finish.

“The good news is that you’re, uh, one of them? The bad news is that I may not be...everything you’re expecting.”

“I told you before, Haz. I don’t _expect_ anything. I just want to be around you, whatever you want that to mean.”

“I wanted to tell you,” Harry continues, all of it rushing out now. “Because most of the time I’m too embarrassed to say. Like, our generation is so accepting of so many kinds of sexual identities, except the ones where you don’t want it all the time, or even at all.”

“Yeah,” Louis says thoughtfully. “Yeah, I do think you’re right there. So what do you usually do?”

“I lie?” Harry laughs coldly. “Make up stories, try to keep up. For years, I thought I was just...broken, you know? But I read through this site that had all these different terms. I don’t know if there’s one for me, but some of the descriptions hit pretty close to home. It was such a relief to find out that I wasn’t alone.”

“I’m glad you told me. Not because you’re worried about disappointing me, which is completely impossible, by the way. But because you should be able to say who you are and talk about your needs without being judged. You have sex when you want to, and not when you don’t. There couldn’t be anything more normal than that, Harry.”

“Thank you. For saying that.”

“No,” Louis says, forcefully. “No ‘thank you.’ It’s just the truth. And fuck anyone who’s ever made you feel like you were anything less than whole.”

Harry blows out a shuddering breath that turns into a laugh.

“I was so nervous. And you were wonderful. I should have known.”

Louis abruptly halts, forcing Harry to stop too. He grasps Harry’s forearms and turns him so they’re facing one another.

“We all have shit we’re not great at talking about, for whatever reason. And not everybody deserves to know everything about you. It’s your life. It’s up to _you,_ Harry.”

Harry stares at him for a beat, Louis breathing heavily with indignance on his behalf, his eyes bright with passion. Then, in one swift movement, Harry takes a hold of his coat lapels with one hand and drags him forward until their lips meet in a blaze. He pours into it all of the appreciation Louis doesn’t want him to speak, then withdraws just as quickly.

“Let’s go home,” he breathes.

They pick up the pace after that, giggling at the way they both charge into a speedwalk, almost tripping over one another. Harry feels so light that he could drift off into the stars if Louis didn’t have such a tight, possessive hold on him.

Yards away from his flat, they turn a corner and almost slam into a young blonde woman in a bright pink puffer jacket, walking by herself.

“Shit,” Louis yelps as they narrowly avoid her. “Sorry, love!”

“Lou?” the woman calls after them, prompting Louis to whirl around.

“Oh my god,” he says, pleasantly surprised. “Bebe! What are you doing here?”

He steps forward to hug her and her glossy nude lips spread into an infectious grin.

“House party in the neighborhood,” she says, holding up a liquor store bag. “You?” She glances at Harry and gives him a flirty wave with her purple-tipped fingers.

“Oh,” Louis says, with less enthusiasm than Harry would like. “This is my friend Harry. We’re just coming from dinner.”

 _Friend_.

“Hi, Harry. Aren’t _you_ adorable?”

Harry takes her outstretched hand and shakes it.

“Louis and I are old pals.”

“Yeah,” Louis cuts in. “We moved to the city around the same time. Figured it all out together. This one is the only reason I didn’t give up and go home after a week, actually.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “Babe, don’t be modest. You were a natural. And how do you two know each other?”

Bebe seems to be addressing the question to Harry, considering him with her wide, babydoll eyes.

“Oh, um,” Harry stammers. “I met Louis at work. At his work – the smoothie place?”

“Let me guess,” Bebe purrs. “You got one look at him in that cute little apron and it was just love at first sight?”

Harry avoids Louis’s eyes, dropping his chin bashfully towards the pavement.

“Awww, it was!” Bebe happily exclaims.

“Of course I noticed him,” Harry says, emboldened. He glances at Louis, who’s uncharacteristically quiet, his expression unreadable. “Who wouldn’t notice him? But I think it was the smoothies that did it. I swear, he’s a magician back there.”

Bebe’s eyes widen further, and she looks pointedly at Louis. “A magician, huh?”

“I just follow the recipes,” he states.

Harry gawks at him, his entire conversation with Gemma flying out of his head. “You can’t be serious. You’re _talented,_ Louis. I’ve never tasted anything like what you make.”

“It must be you, Harry,” Bebe says, still looking at Louis, who’s suddenly interested in a nearby street lamp. “A little something special, huh, Lou?”

Harry’s eyes dart helplessly between the two of them, trying to find the hidden layer of the conversation.

“Well,” he says finally, tapping the back of Louis’s elbow with his knuckle. “It was good to meet you, Bebe, but it’s getting la–”

“Harry, I should go,” Louis blurts out.

Harry’s heart drops into his stomach.

“What?”

“I’ll just leave you to…” Bebe trails off, pointing vaguely behind her. “It was nice running into you, Louis. Just...be careful out there, okay?”

Then she’s gone, clicking away on her heels, and Louis and Harry are alone on the corner, miles away from where they were two minutes ago.

“Lou, did something happen?” Harry runs his hand roughly through his hair. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, Haz, never,” he says sadly. “It’s my fault. Not yours.”

“Are you seriously giving me the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech?”

Louis spreads his arms wide and lets them fall against his thighs. How dare he look helpless right now.

“Look if you changed your mind, that’s fine. But I deserve the truth.” Harry squares his shoulders and raises his chin. “Tell me what you’re thinking. Right now. You said you always would.”

“I didn’t say ‘always,’ Harry. And I can’t,” Louis mutters. “Not right now.”

Harry swallows, then nods once.

“It’s not my secret to tell,” Louis adds, looking desolate. “I’m sorry, I really am. But I think it’s best for both of us if I just go home.”

Harry is frozen still, hurt and baffled. He told Louis things he’d never told anyone. The air is suddenly colder, and he longs to just get inside, escape this stupid suit, get under the covers with Sadie, and live out the rest of his days there. Alone, like he’s meant to be.

“I’ll see ya,” Louis says, gently.

He rises to his tiptoes to kiss Harry softly on the cheek. Harry doesn’t react at all.


	6. Chapter 6

Only after four hours of _The Office,_ a barely freezer-burned half pint of Ben & Jerry’s, and some restless sleep, does Harry realize what he’s done. Or may have done.

Sort of.

Of course, he doesn’t know who Bebe really is to Louis or why Louis reacted the way he did to Harry’s comment, but otherwise, the pieces are coming together. He mentally went back over the whole conversation once he was safely inside his flat, suit flung onto his desk chair and tears threatening to spillover, and there it was.

_I swear, he’s a magician back there._

Stupid. So, so stupid.

That had to be it. That had to be what struck a nerve with Louis.

But how did Louis even know that Harry _knew?_ It’s an expression. Totally innocuous, never meant literally. Who says “he’s a magician” and means it literally, unless they’re talking about Neil Patrick Harris?

Anyway, if Louis suspected that Harry _had_ figured out the truth, why should he care?

Harry trusted him. With everything, right off the bat. But evidently, that trust wasn’t going to be reciprocated.

Louis _left_ him. Alone, on a street corner. He hadn’t even tried to explain.

The look on his face hadn’t seemed like _forever,_ though. It hadn’t seemed like _goodbye._ Louis clearly panicked; Harry had never seen him look so pale.

But he wasn’t angry, of that much Harry’s sure.

Novelists, they don’t mind leaving some things open-ended. They want the reader to work for it, to feel free to bring themselves inside the story.

But this isn’t a novel. It’s Harry’s life, and he needs answers.

Fortunately, he knows where to find them. Or him.

But the shop is missing something, when Harry strolls in just after the breakfast rush. It’s still miraculously clean and organized, an uncanny light spilling through the glass storefront and making it feel more like a spa than anything else. But otherwise it’s ordinary. Just a place you might pass on your way to the tube and either go in or not, depending on your mood. The tractor beam energy that pulled Harry in that first day is absent. Ollie is in the back, and Sharon is at the counter, frowning dramatically at Harry.

“Called in sick today, love,” she says, before Harry can ask. “There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.”

Too embarrassed by her pity to walk away empty-handed, Harry orders a Berry Bonanza, medium, and gives Sharon a weak smile. He waits until he’s back out on the street to try it.

It’s as flavorless as clay, and he throws the almost-full cup into the nearest waste bin, feeling only moderately guilty.

 _Heard you’re ill,_ he texts Louis. _Feel better soon._

He spends the rest of his day fidgeting at his laptop and watching his cursor blink, Sadie considering him sympathetically from the foot of his bed. Louis doesn’t reply, and Harry isn’t all that surprised.

*****

“Harry. Fucking finally.”

Harry smiles grimly as he slowly makes his way over to his mates. “Nice to see you too, Nick.”

“We were worried about you, weren’t we?” Nick says, scooting closer to Zayn so there’s room for Harry in the circular booth.

“As worried as two grown men can be about another grown man,” Zayn adds, nigh-monotone.

Harry strikes a half-hearted pose and does a full turn. “Well, as you can see, I’m fine.”

“You seem _great,”_ Nick says, sarcastically.

“Just get me a bloody drink,” Harry sighs, sinking into the booth.

“Coming right up.” Zayn slides out the other end and heads towards the bar, drawing stares from pub patrons of every gender, which he ignores.

“Welllll,” Nick sing-songs. “How’s the book coming?”

Harry drops his head into his hands and groans. Loudly. A girl from the next table looks over her shoulder and screws up her face at him.

“That well, eh?”

He picks up his head, curls falling like a curtain around his face. “I’ve hit a slight...snag.”

“Snag?”

“I haven’t written a word in a week.”

“Not even in that kumbaya writing class thing? Don’t they have Himalayan salt lamps to help in situations like this?”

“I skipped it. Didn’t go.”

“That’s not like you.” Nick frowns, resting his pint on the table and looking at Harry seriously. “Come on, darling. What’s up?”

Harry cranes his neck towards the bar to see how Zayn is faring. It’s been a week since he’s seen Louis properly, though he’s pretty sure he caught a man of his height and tremendous arse darting into the employee bathroom the last time he stopped in the shop. He could really use that drink.

“Remember the guy I told you about?”

“The barista,” Nick says confidently. “Sure.”

“It’s a smoothie shop, actually. And we were sort of, um, seeing each other for a while.”

Zayn returns to the table, handing Harry’s pint to him with a silent nod.

“And it was good. At the start,” Harry continues. “Not just fun. He made me better, I think. But now something’s happened, and I don’t know what it was so I can’t work out how to make it right. And I’m a massive knob and no one is ever gonna love me, least of all the person that I actually _want._ So it’s a little hard to be creative at the moment.”

People would say to Harry, in uni, that they thought he and Nick and Zayn were an odd trio. But he didn’t see what was so odd about it. The other two were flatmates when the three of them met, answering an online ad Harry had posted about his essay-writing services. He took his unethical freelance job seriously, spending time with his clients so he could try to express their thoughts, not just spit out something generic. So they bonded over late night coffees and brainstorming sessions, getting off-topic often enough to forge a friendship that lasted. They could be arseholes, when they felt like it, but it’s moments like this that remind Harry what he saw in them – what they saw in each other – in the first place.

Instead of making jokes, Zayn and Nick sit quietly with their pints, watching Harry with empathy as he gets it all (well, minus the magic thing) out. He wishes he had told them sooner.

“H, I hate to put this in your head, but do you think he was seeing someone else?” Zayn asks. “If Bebe knew that person, it could have been really bad for him.”

It’s a thought Harry hadn’t entertained before and won’t now. Not because he knows all there is to know about Louis – “barely anything” is his current score – but because Louis didn’t seem like a person who _had_ anybody. He was adrift – a state Harry knows well.

“No,” he shakes his head forcefully. “No, that wasn’t it. Because he was happy to see her at first.”

“Well, it sounds like something spooked him,” Nick reasons. “And you’ve no idea what it was?”

“Not a clue,” Harry lies. “And I’ve tried to talk to him and apologize, but I think he’s hiding from me.”

Zayn and Nick exchange a look, something they do often in Harry’s presence. As close as they are as a threesome, those two have always been on a different wavelength. And Harry will always be their project, in some sense. He loves them too much to let that bother him. They may not need him for essays anymore, but they still need him.

“You think that we patronize you sometimes,” Nick says, apparently now a mind reader. “But I, for one, am really proud of you for going for it with this guy, whatever happens.”

“Same,” Zayn confirms.

“All you can do is reach out to him. The ball is in his court, and to my wise old ears, it sounds like he has his own shit going on.”

“Yeah,” Zayn pipes in. “Maybe he’s going through something, yeah? So he’s gotta go through it, and come out the other side.”

“ _Don’t,”_ Nick adds, pointing a finger in Harry’s face, “blame yourself. Just get back on track. Be you, write your book. If Louis has any brains at all, he’ll come running back.”

Harry comes up for air after taking a deep, thirsty pull of his beer. “Book’s canceled. I’m shit.”

“No, _noooo,_ listen,” Nick says in his teacher voice, wiping Harry’s foam mustache away with his thumb. “You are not shit. You’re heartbroken. And you know what? It’s actually okay to get hurt. Otherwise, how would you know you’re alive?”

“It’ll come,” Zayn adds, a touch softer. “Just give yourself some time.”

“You’ve done it all by yourself so far, babe,” Nick soothes. “You can like this guy. Hell, you can even love him. But you’re not going to give him credit for your talent.”

For the rest of the night, they dedicate themselves to getting resplendently drunk. Harry had already tried writing sober and well-rested, Nick reasons when Harry weakly argues against it. Maybe a solid hangover would get him out of his head, shake something loose. So Harry shrugs and accepts Zayn’s proffered shot, mentally ticking down a list of all the great literary names who liked a drink. Their pathetic, depressing ends, however, he tries not to picture.

The fog lifts as the three of them rack up rounds. Fortunately, Harry’s never been a sad drunk. So they laugh too loudly and clink their glasses until the table’s covered by a thin layer of beer, but deep down, he knows it’s just a reprieve.

They tumble out of the pub together, and Nick wraps the other two up in his freakishly long arms, kisses them each on the side of their heads, then wordlessly lets them go. Harry can feel the broad, boozy smile that stays on his face until his mates are out of sight. Then he drops his hand – the one that was forcefully waving – and heads home. He couldn’t think if he tried, and he’s grateful for that. Sadie bounds out of the way when he trips on his stupid, hilarious welcome mat and nearly faceplants into his flat.

It’s all Harry can do to shoot a _Thanks, love u_ text to the group chat, pull off his jeans, and fall into bed. His last waking thought is that Hemingway may have been a miserable bastard, but he probably slept well.

*****

He doesn’t dream at all, so when Harry wakes to a violent assault by daylight, it’s as if he _just_ closed his eyes. Groaning, he turns over from his askew, chalk-outline position on his stomach, accidentally rubbing his cheek against a little pillow patch of drool.

Shocking, really, that Dorothy Parker didn’t have more to say about dry mouth in her letters.

He feels like hell, but at least he earned it. Drinking too much equals sleeping in your pants and your jumper from last night. Cause and effect. It’s sensical. Comforting, even.

His physical hurts blur out everything else in his brain for the remainder of the slow, deliberate morning. Harry doesn’t think about Louis when he takes a 15-minute shower or orders an indulgent fry-up from a nearby cafe that he eats in front of the last half hour of _Bridget Jones’s Baby._

All it takes to bring him back is bacon grease and Paracetamol.

Shuffling over to his workspace with his phone, Harry checks his and Louis’s text thread, just to make sure he hadn’t opened it in his drunken state and skimmed over something new. It’s a whim – he would have instantly sobered up if Louis had made contact – but it still makes him sigh.

Nearly an hour later, and his draft looks exactly the same as it did a week ago, though there were a few close calls with Harry typing a new sentence then repeatedly tapping the backspace key with force. He sends Nick a text to tell him that, though it was worth a shot, hangovers do _not_ cure writer's block.

Maybe Louis never wants to see him again. Things got too serious, too soon. Louis got swept up in the moment too, which is why he said those things. And then he saw someone from his other life – his _real_ life – and suddenly realized that he’d over-promised.

Harry just needs closure, that’s what it is. If Louis actually tells him – to his face – that it’s over and why, he’ll be able to move on, and finish this damn book. He can’t avoid him forever. He’s afraid what will become of him if he does.

Harry slides open his desk drawer and pulls out a personalized notepad that he got for graduation from one friend of his mother’s or another. He flicks the pen against the paper for a solid minute, trying to come up with the perfect note – an _irresistible_ note.

All of a sudden it comes to him. Harry gets up and pulls a heavy tome from the bottom of his bookshelf, then takes it back to the table and pages to the place he wants. Squinting down at the fine print, he finds what he’s looking for and jots a message down on the pad.

He dresses quickly, opting for black jeans and a freshly laundered grey hoodie, shoves his wallet into his back pocket, and palms his keys. He folds the note carefully and stores it in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, then pulls the hood over his still-damp curls.

There’s no sign of Louis in the shop again today, which still hurts, even though Harry had already resigned himself to it.

He waits dutifully for his turn in the queue. He hasn’t seen the man at the counter before – tall, with a mop of dark curls on the top of his head – but he recognizes the name on his name tag as someone Louis had mentioned.

“Morning, man. What can I get you?” Dalton asks with a big smile. Harry will take it over Sharon’s exaggerated sympathy. But his stomach gurgles ominously at the prospect of another Berry Bonanza.

“Um, just a cup of water please?”

“No problem,” Dalton confirms, though he can’t mask his confusion. “You got it.”

As soon as his back is turned, Harry takes the note from his pouch and drops it into the tip jar. When Dalton arrives back at the counter, Harry adds a two pound coin and takes the cup from his outstretched hand.

“Cheers, mate,” he says, then walks straight out the door and back to his flat to wait.

*****

Harry busies himself for the rest of the afternoon watching movies, tweaking a section of a manual, and answering Liam’s excessively understanding email about the lack of new pages. He doesn’t start to get antsy until around closing time. Perhaps sensing this, Sadie sprawls out next to him on the sofa, her back pressed along the length of his thigh.

The text tone almost gives him a heart attack, since he only enabled it for this purpose. Still loosely clutching his chest, Harry reaches for his phone, pulse pounding in his temples.

It’s from him. Just an address and a time.

The tone sounds again.

_Please come._

Harry leans back against the sofa and closes his eyes, overwhelmed to hear from Louis after so many days of nothing. After a few deep breaths, he reads the text again and checks the time. Louis wants to meet two hours from now.

Gemma would probably have a lot to say about a guy who ghosted him for a week inviting Harry out to an unknown location in the middle of the night, so he decides not to tell her. He’s kept her in the dark about pretty much everything that happened after his and Louis’s ill-fated dinner, begging off of their brunch by claiming to be too busy when he was really just dusting every flat surface in his flat to occupy his hands.

It was pathetic, his reason for avoiding her.

He didn’t want her to think poorly of Louis. His sister may forgive, but she doesn’t forget, which would have made things awkward at their eventual country wedding. Even after Louis abandoned Harry, Harry was still protecting him.

Anyway, if Louis just wants to break up with him in person, he and Gemma will have plenty to talk about later.

Swallowing that rather potent fear, Harry maps the address on his phone and sees that it’s just about 20 minutes away on the tube. He hasn’t been able to say no to Louis so far, and he’s certainly not going to start now.

 _I’ll be there,_ he writes back, then goes about getting ready.


	7. Chapter 7

The door is so set back in the brick face of the building that Harry almost walks right past it.

It’s wooden, painted dark green, and rounded at the top, with a large brass doorknob and an old fashioned lock fit for a key you’d find in a jar at an antique shop. Harry checks the street number in Louis’s message against the one affixed to the door in black wrought iron. He feels like he’s in an old, black and white movie, showing up unannounced at 221B Baker Street with a soggy handkerchief and a puzzling case.

He looked online before he left, wanting to prepare himself if Louis had invited him to meet at a bar or a cafe. But all he found at the address in the text was a residential building.

This is where Louis lives. That has to be a good sign.

Smoothing his coat down around himself has the added effect of wiping the clamminess from Harry’s palms. Clearing his throat, he looks up to see two large-ish windows on the second floor, emitting a warm, golden light from behind drawn curtains.

There’s a keypad installed to the right of the door, indicating that there are three separate flats in the strange, old building. In spite of the mysterious circumstances, Harry smirks when he sees “TOMLINSON” written out in Louis’s rounded, lively handwriting and slid behind the plastic. He presses the bell for #1 and shoves his hands into his pockets, counting on Louis to speak first.

Seconds later, the door swings open and Louis is standing there, wearing a small smile and sad eyes.

“You came,” he says, with relief. “Come in, please. It’s fucking freezing.”

He moves to the side to make way for Harry, welcoming him into a small lobby adorned with nothing but a small light fixture, three mailboxes, and a staircase. Louis shuts the door behind him, resolutely staying outside of Harry’s personal space. A week ago they couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. Harry squeezes his into fists in the privacy of his pockets.

“Did you find the place okay?” Louis asks. “What am I even saying, of course you found it. You’re here.”

Harry wants to let himself be charmed by Louis’s nerves. But there are answers that he needs before he can give himself over again.

“What the hell happened, Louis? I’ve been trying to reach you for _days._ You dodged my texts. You were hiding from me at work. That was embarrassing, by the way.”

Louis pushes a hand through his hair and closes his eyes against the words.

“I know. I know I did, and it’s...unforgivable.” He opens his eyes and stares seriously into Harry’s. “You opened up so much that night, and it couldn’t have been easy. And I am _desperately_ sorry if I made you feel like anything you said bothered me. When the truth is that I admire you _so fucking much._ I admire your strength and your sense of self and the way you refuse to let other people shape you, even if you’re still working things out on your own. It was me. _I_ got scared. But it didn’t have anything to do with you, not personally.”

Harry shifts his weight and crosses his arms over his chest. “I think I have a right to know.”

“I think you already have a pretty good idea, don’t you?” Louis says, cocking his head to the side. “Isn’t that was this is about?”

He holds out a creased piece of paper with Harry’s full name embossed at the top. Harry doesn’t have to lean in to read it; he remembers very well what it says.

_Henry V. 5, 2, 286_

“It took me ages to figure out what it meant,” Louis continues, not waiting for an answer. “Shakespeare, it was never my strong suit in school. But then I realized you were pointing me to a quote. Act five, scene two, line 286. I found the play online. And I knew...at least, I think I knew...what you were trying to say.”

“What was it, then? What was the line?” Harry asks, watching Louis carefully. The moment is as fragile as spun sugar.

“‘There is witchcraft in your lips,’” Louis recites, gaze trained down near Harry’s boots. His eyes flick back up, questioning. “You wanted me to understand. That you already know.”

Harry’s heart skips a beat and his voice drops to a whisper. “I need you to say the words. Please. So I know I’m not crazy.”

“I can do better than that.” Louis takes a step closer to him for the first time since Harry arrived, and tentatively offers his hand. Harry takes it, and Louis starts to lead them up the stairs. Even in the midst of this potentially world-bending conversation, Harry has the wherewithal to admire the way his black and white plaid pants stretch across the curve of Louis’s arse. So much so that he’s almost disappointed that their destination is only one flight up.

When they reach the landing, Louis turns to face him, still loosely clasping his hand.

“I’ve never showed this to anyone. Anyone like you, I mean. But I’m so glad that you’re here. Really.”

Harry nods, knowing he’s on the precipice of something. Then Louis pushes open his normal-looking front door, and his attention is drawn inside.

Harry wanders in without consciously giving his legs the order to move. Louis follows behind him, closing the door and silently taking a place by his side.

Vines crawl up the inner, exposed brick walls of the flat, their leaves curling around and through the many plants that hang from bars installed along the ceiling. All different varieties, they’ve grown so long and low, that Louis probably can’t walk through the flat without their leaves brushing his head and shoulders, let alone Harry. There’s a library-sized bookshelf on the far wall, packed with jars and bottles of every possible shade of blown glass, unlabeled and not organized by any discernible criteria. A beaten up old mahogany table sits in the very center of the room, piled high with books and papers, some stark white and new-looking, others curling or bound with cracked leather, plus a scientific set-up of some kind, though they’re no instruments that Harry’s ever handled before. The kitchenette area is just as cluttered, with bunches of dried herbs and flowers strung along the windows and a large bowl filled with vibrantly ripe fruits and vegetables. Beakers of varying sizes dry in a large dish rack.

In the corner closest to the door, there’s an overstuffed mattress covered by a deep red duvet. Another stack of books serves as a bedside table, hosting a collection of raw-edged crystals. Candles burn in every available location, and the first, insane thought that comes to Harry’s mind is that this whole place is a fire hazard.

“This whole place is a fire hazard,” he says, wide eyes landing on Louis.

“If they were regular candles, it definitely would be,” Louis answers. “Come on. Let’s sit down and talk.”

Understanding that Harry is still in some phase of mild shock, Louis unbuttons his coat for him, then reaches up to slide it off of his shoulders and down his arms, doing his best to avoid Harry’s body.

But Harry drops his chin to watch him, catching the way Louis’s Adam’s apple bobs when he sees Harry’s silky palm-print shirt, the top two buttons left strategically undone – despite the weather – for just this reason.

“This is nice,” Louis says, voice tight.

“Thanks.”

He crosses the room to hang Harry’s coat up inside of his closest. Filled with jeans and jumpers and track jackets, it’s the most ordinary part of the flat. Then Louis points out the door to the toilet to Harry, promising that it’s perfectly normal as well.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have a lot of seating,” he explains, fluffing up some floor pillows in the small open area behind his work table. “But I don’t have company very often.”

Harry folds himself into a crossed legged position on one of the pillows, grateful that he wore his skinny jeans with the most stretch. “The floor is fine.”

Louis smiles hopefully and settles in across from him, looking far more comfortable in his clingy black jumper and drawstring pants.

“Soooo,” Harry says after a moment. “I like your place.”

“I should have been honest with you from the beginning. As soon as I knew I could trust you, at least. Which was almost immediately,” Louis confesses in a rush. “But it’s been drilled into me for so long, the secrecy thing. It’s like I forgot that _I_ had a choice in the matter.”

“And what matter is that?” Harry prompts. He can do this all night.

Louis sighs and folds his hands in front of him.

“I’m a witch. It’s not a gendered term, no matter what the books say. But they get a lot of it wrong, actually. Can you talk to someone about that?”

“I’ll bring it up at the next meeting,” Harry deadpans, still reeling, even though his guess was right. To hear Louis own it so matter-of-factly is quite another thing.

“For some people, it’s hereditary. I got it from my mum’s side. Never knew my dad and she didn’t talk about him much, but I get the feeling he didn’t accept her. But mum loved the _craft_ of it, like other mums and dads like cooking or gardening. And she loved teaching it to me.”

“But if you have to learn, what–?”

“What are you born with? It’s hard to explain...actually, you know what empaths are, yeah?” Harry nods. “It’s like that, almost. The only magic that I know comes from things that you ingest or have near you or interact with your body in some way. Like Potions in Harry Potter, if you like. Though I have a lot of gripes with those books as well...”

Harry gives him a look.

“Sorry. Anyway, I have to learn the methods and the recipes but there’s a part of it that’s just _there._ I have this sense of how magic affects any given person, so I can tailor it. Personalize it.”

“Like you did with me.”

Louis winces.

“God, Harry. That was so, _so_ wrong. I swear on my mum’s _life_ that I only ever wanted to help you. I shouldn’t have given you anything without asking you first. But you walked into the shop, and you were so fit and sweet and nervous about your big meeting. Not that a crush is any excuse. It was just a thoughtless, snap decision. And then you were so happy the next time I saw you...I wanted you to be that way all the time.”

“So...impressing Liam, writing a quarter of my book...was any of that _actually_ me?”

Looking stricken, Louis pitches forward to take Harry by the shoulders, shaking him lightly.

“That was _all you.”_ He drop his hands back to his lap, and Harry scolds himself for feeling bereft of the touch.

“It’s not like it is in the movies. I can’t turn people into other people. Nobody can. I can whip up candles that burn forever but won’t transfer a flame to anything else, but I can’t change _you.”_

Harry wants to believe that’s true. But his imposter syndrome is reasserting itself with a vengeance. Can he still call it that if he was just imitating an inauthentic version of himself?

“Are you sure?”

“I’m 100 percent dead sure,” Louis says, emphasizing every word. “What I gave you – Which was all natural and organic and _not gross,_ by the way; no bat wings or ferret eyes or whatever they’re telling kids about us these days. They’re just enhancements. They can’t create anything in you, they just boost what’s already there. Liam wanted to work with you before we even met. And those ideas for your novel? You _had_ them all already.”

“Okay. Okay, fine.” He’s cramping up, so Harry stretches one of his legs completely straight, half bracketing Louis’s body. It _does not_ make the skin around his knee cap tingle. “But that doesn’t explain the golf.”

“The _what?”_

“I went golfing with Liam and some publishing guys, and I played like I was in the Masters. I don’t golf, Louis!” Harry says, a little hysterical.

“Yeaaah, sports are a little different. Let’s just say that if anyone ever came up with a way to test for performance-enhancing magic, some Olympians would be losing their medals.”

 _“Louis.”_ Harry gapes at him, scandalized.

“I didn’t have anything to do with it! I’m just saying. It’s possible.”

They sit with their own thoughts for a moment. Harry chews on his bottom lip and for once, is too preoccupied by his own to wonder what’s happening in Louis’s head.

“Why couldn’t you just tell me?” he eventually asks.

Louis sighs.

“It’s complicated. A lot of it is just tradition, right? ‘The way we’ve always done things,’” he says in a booming, self-important voice. “And I bought it, for years. But a little piece of me broke off every time you texted and I couldn’t answer you back. It _wrecked_ me, Harry, ignoring you like that. Not seeing you. And then I got your note, and it all just seemed so stupid and pointless. I don’t even know what I was afraid of. I can’t think of a single consequence that would be worse than not having you in my life.”

Louis becomes very interested in the hardwood floor, which, to its credit, _does_ look expensive and very, very old. Harry, in the meantime, would rather study the way the enchanted candle light flickers over Louis’s features, making him look tortured and elegant, like a golden prince hidden away in a tower by a jealous rival.

“I told you the truth,” Louis continues when Harry doesn’t speak. “I moved here after mum died. I just up and quit my job at the library, even though it was a pretty good gig, because everything in Donny reminded me of her. I couldn’t go anywhere without people looking at me like _that,_ you know, like the town tragedy. Even though I was grown up. Already lost me dad, and then...I couldn’t stand it. Not anymore.”

He meets Harry’s gaze again, and he smiles as he locates a fonder memory.

“Mum had some older friends around, who were like us.”

“A-a coven?” Harry asks before he can feel stupid for even thinking of the word.

“Felt more like a book group, to be honest. What we lacked in numbers we made up for in tea and Victoria sponge. You need people, when you have to keep so much of yourself a secret from the outside world. So when I decided to go, one of the ladies linked me up with her granddaughter, who grew up in the city. And _she_ got me a place in _her_ coven.”

“Bebe.”

“Bebe. Exactly. She was a massive help and is still a good mate, but she has her own life. We see each other here and there, and it’s always nice. But I was still–”

“You were lonely,” Harry interrupts, sure of it as anything. “I could tell.”

Louis doesn’t argue.

“This coven...it isn’t anything like the one back home. It’s all about bylaws and quorum and nobody even brings biscuits to the meetings, Harry.”

And Harry feels for him, this small town boy who picked up his whole life and moved to a city where he knew exactly one person, who bravely pushed forward in the midst of his grief, only to find his new home to be cold and isolating and unaware of just what a treasure it had in Louis Tomlinson.

“That’s why I recognized you, when you came in that day,” Louis stresses. “Something was coming through so strongly. Like you were a radio tower or summat. I felt it…Then you smiled at me, and I saw that dimple for the first time, and I was absolutely sure. I knew that you deserved better.”

“I don’t think I understand…”

“Of course you were _fine,_ Harry. I was, as well. We were alright. But both of us, we were just...going through the motions. And it hit me, all at once. Life could be so much _better._ For you and for me.”

“What, if you chatted me up?” Harry, unable to help himself, smirks at him.

Louis’s mouth drops open in serious offense. “Excuse me, was I _wrong?”_

It’s lethally cute, and Harry’s attempt at sarcasm withers away in the face of it.

“No, Lou,” he says softly. “You weren’t wrong.”

Indignance gone, Louis looks at him from beneath his eyelashes and Harry is distinctly aware of the temperature in the room, the way the buttons of his blouse settle against his chest. The way it keeps drawing Louis’s eye.

“I did want to let you in,” Louis says after a beat. “I swear to you that I did. It took longer than it should have, but I was working on a plan. Then we ran into Bebe, and it all caught up with me. I wasn’t ready.”

Harry sighs. For the first time ever, he wishes he didn’t know so much about YA genre fiction.

“Let me guess...dating mortals is against the bylaws?”

“First of all, I’m _extremely_ mortal,” Louis clarifies. “My back is starting to hurt. I get a lot of paper cuts. I’m going grey, look!”

He holds out a piece of his fringe, then scrubs a hand over his face, presumably to get himself back on track.

“ _Anyway._ They can’t keep you from doing anything. Witches marry non-witches, they have kids. But these organizations, Harry, they’re very old. And they don’t exactly make life easy for you if you go against their rules, especially if you want to keep practicing. And magic...it was what me and mum had. Everything she showed me, it’s what I have left of her.”

“So you’ve never, um, been with anyone like me before?” Harry asks, picking at a stray thread on his pillow.

“Some flings here and there. I had a pretty serious boyfriend in school back home, but it wasn’t so controversial – to the coven, I mean,” Louis explains. “Obviously there were some _other_ reasons why people didn’t approve. But you were the first person I met in London that I could see any kind of future with.”

A current of hope zings through Harry and he snaps his gaze back up to Louis.

“And I guess I realized that I hadn’t really thought about the consequences of pursuing that.”

“That’s why you wouldn’t take that picture with me, in the park.”

“I couldn’t risk it. At least that’s what I was thinking at the time. You said you wouldn’t post it, but I was terrified. I couldn’t be sure. If one of those old bastards saw it on Facebook, you would have been New Business at the next meeting.”

“See, adults just shouldn’t be on Facebook.”

“Too bloody true,” Louis agrees, his straight face prompting a laugh to bubble out of Harry.

“It’s your right, though,” Harry says, becoming serious again. “No matter the circumstances. I shouldn’t have assumed…”

“I’m so sorry that I ever made you feel like I was upset or panicked because of you. It was never, _ever_ you.”

His contrition makes Louis seem even younger; Harry can picture him as a pink-cheeked little boy, apologizing for a spill. Who would ever deny him forgiveness?

“It’s okay,” he whispers.

“Is it alright if I ask _you_ a question now?”

Harry nods, stretching his other leg wide.

“I...how did you guess?”

He rubs his chin and pretends to ponder. “I think it was around my first and only hole-in-one.”

Louis laughs breathily, then lets him continue.

“That, and a bunch of other little things. And my sister knew someone who knew someone…”

“Are you quite sure your sister isn’t _in the family,_ if you know what I mean?”

“She’s a woman of many talents, but no.” Harry purses his lips, then releases them into a slow grin. “She had you pegged, though.”

“Sounds like she did, yeah,” Louis says with distinct admiration.

“But she had me pegged too.”

Louis raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

“She knew that none of that would matter to me if I didn’t feel the way I do.”

He feels Louis’s hand come to rest on his shin, and it’s surprisingly intimate.

“Harry, could I...I would really like to show you something. Would you let me do that?”

“Yes,” is the immediate, inevitable answer.

Using Harry’s leg as leverage, Louis rises to his knees and then up to his feet, then extends a hand down to Harry.

“Can you even fit in an airline seat with those things?” he huffs, panning down Harry’s lower body as soon as he’s upright.

“Take me somewhere and we’ll find out,” Harry counters, letting his fingers linger on Louis’s wrist.

He groans, and Harry preens.

“Come over here, you shameless flirt.”

Harry follows Louis over to the mahogany table, watching him as he picks up and then discards book after book, searching for the right one.

“Gotcha.”

When Louis flips over the worn, hardcover book, it’s not at all what Harry was expecting.

Though, to be fair, _Hogwarts: A History_ is just about the only magic title he knows.

“ _The Secret Garden,”_ he reads from over Louis’s shoulder. He’s facing away from him, but Harry can tell from the movement of his cheek that Louis smiles.

“Mum’s favorite. She started reading it to me before I could even understand it.”

He turns the book onto its spine and lets it fall open, revealing a few handwritten pages tucked inside.

“Are they hers too?”

Louis closes the book again and pushes it out of the way, then unfolds the small stack of pages and tries to smooth out the crease.

“Yeah.”

He looks back at Harry, then takes a hold of his forearm and urges him forward.

“C’mon. Right next to me.”

Harry comes until he’s standing hip to hip with Louis, looking down at yellowing pages of his mother’s loopy cursive. These things are sacred to him, Harry knows. A sudden surge of affection flows through him, so strong that it almost moves him physically.

“I have them backed up,” Louis explains, somewhat sheepishly. “But I like to work from the originals.”

He clears his throat and claps his hands together.

“Okay, Curly. What should we do today?”

Louis spreads the pages across the table. Harry catches names like “Simple Herb Protection Spell” and “For Safe Travel” written across the top lines. The outside world feels so far away, and while it’s a pleasant escape to be here with Louis, Harry can easily see how living in this sanctuary alone could take a toll.

“Ah, this is a good one. Dead easy too.”

He puts one sheet to the side, in front of Harry, then tucks the others back into their hiding place.

“Good Night Charm,” Harry reads aloud.

“I can’t make up for the last few days,” Louis says, turning his head to look at him. “But I owe you some beautiful dreams, at least.”

No one’s ever offered him a gift like that. Harry doesn’t know what to say.

Before he can find an answer, Louis is halfway to the kitchen, calling for Harry to read him the list of ingredients, “just in case” his memory fails him.

“We need a white candle and a pink candle,” Harry says, then deadpans, “Wherever are we going to find some of those?”

“Hi- _lar-_ ious. But we actually need regular old candles for this. There’s a box of tea lights on the bookshelf over there.” Louis points his chin towards the mammoth thing, as though Harry could have ever missed it.

It stands out from the various sizes and shapes of glassware that take up the rest of the case, so he locates the flimsy cardboard box quickly, then digs around for the appropriate colors. Palming the small, cheap candles, Harry returns to the recipe.

“A dozen cloves,” he reads slowly, waiting until Louis locates each item before he moves on to the next. “Pinch of salt. Half an ounce each of peppermint and rosemary. A twist of dried lemon. And a dozen cardamom pods...Whether it works or not, it’s going to smell _amazing.”_

“Trust me,” Louis says, coming back to the table with a big mixing bowl full of ingredients. “It’s bloody foolproof. The only problem is that it becomes less potent if you use it constantly. So I save it for special occasions. I’d rather have a few gorgeous dreams a year than 365 passable ones, wouldn’t you?”

Yeah. He would.

“That’s what actual magic is,” Louis continues, emptying the bowl and tossing his head to get the fringe out of his eyes. “It’s not a miracle. It won’t make your life perfect; it _can’t._ And it can get in the way as much as it helps, obviously. But it’s real. And if you do it right…” He uses one of his enchanted candles to light the two ordinary ones. Naturally, it doesn’t drip. “...You can make a difference to someone. Even if it’s just giving them one good night of sleep.”

Harry picks up a sprig of fresh rosemary and rolls the stem between his fingers, reading back over Louis’s mum’s concise instructions, which range from the practical to the emotional. _As you mix, remember only fond memories._

“I think it’s noble.”

Louis stops his arranging, one hand suspended in the air, and looks at Harry.

“Do you?”

“Of course. You’re being kind to people, Louis.”

“And here’s how fucked up our system is,” he answers with a sigh. “Whenever I do that, I’m breaking the rules.”

“But you do it anyway. Look what you did for me.”

Louis returns to his work, evidently not keen on the subject.

“Could you hand me two of those sachet bags please? Right near your left hand?”

Harry locates the midnight blue bags and passes them over. Louis loosens their drawstrings and slides them to the side.

“ _Lou.”_

“Look, Harry. I’m not all that proud of it. I did it behind your back, made you second-guess yourself. It was stupid and it was reckless.”

He begins pulling mint leaves off of their stems and dropping them into the mixing bowl, avoiding Harry’s eyes.

“Do I look angry at you right now?” Harry gets a hold of one of Louis’s busy hands, encircling his wrist in a loose grip, forcing him to look into Harry’s face.

He watches Louis’s eyes roam all over, from his smooth brow down to his unclenched jaw. They pause for a short but noticeable length of time on his lips, igniting a low, simmering heat in Harry’s stomach.

“No,” Louis admits finally.

“We’re _good,”_ Harry presses. “So let’s just move on, okay? I wanna learn. Will you teach me? Please?”

“Yeah...yes, okay.”

“Okay. What’s next?”

“Shit, I forgot the mortar and pestle. Can you grab them from the kitchen please?”

Louis points to a countertop and Harry goes to fetch them.

“Alright, now put the cloves, cardamom, and the salt in there, and sort of pummel them until it’s a powder.”

Harry leans forward to check the recipe, brushing his arm against Louis’s. He feels rather than hears him inhale. Emboldened, Harry reaches across Louis’s front to retrieve the sea salt instead of just asking him for it. He measures the amount, noting from the corner of his eye that Louis’s own progress has decelerated, the mint leaves falling into the mixing bowl at a slower rate.

Harry picks up the pestle once all of his ingredients are there, and Louis seems to come back to himself, putting his hand over the mortar to stop him.

“Don’t start just yet. This is most important bit.”

“Good memories, right?” Harry asks. “I read ahead.”

“The stuff, the ingredients, it’s only half of it,” Louis explains, gesturing to their setup. “The rest is something that only _you_ can put into a spell. Or in this case, you and me. The way you’re feeling, what you’re thinking when you do it, you can’t hide it away. It all goes in.”

Harry flashes back to his first day in the shop — still a stranger, Louis had dipped his chin and looked up at him with such curiosity, such interest. And Harry had walked away feeling worthy and cared for, confident that he had something to offer the world. It all goes in.

“Tell me one,” he softly commands.

Louis grins. “Okay, I’ll go first...When I was eleven, I broke my tibia – that’s the shin bone – falling out of the tree in our back garden. It hurt like a _motherfucker,_ you’ve no idea. I had to stay home from school for a few weeks because it was too painful to even _move,_ let alone walk with crutches. And there were too many stairs for me to make it to my classroom anyway.”

He waves his hand in a circle, signaling Harry to start crushing the spices.

“I was a proper social butterfly, so I actually loved school. And it made me feel...normal. Like just a regular kid. So I got really down after a little while, once the novelty of being able to watch TV all day wore off.”

“I can imagine,” Harry says, his heart contracting at the thought of baby Louis and his cast spending day after day all alone.

“Mum could see that I was depressed, I suppose. One day when I woke up in the morning, she told me that I’d have to take a bath and put on something other than pajamas, because my friends were coming. She’d arranged for my teacher to bring the whole class over to watch the old black-and-white _To Kill A Mockingbird,_ because we were studying it in Literature.”

“That’s so lovely, Lou.”

“It really was. They all packed into our front room, in front of our little TV. We ordered pizza. Some of them even brought me presents.” He shakes his head fondly. “She heard all about it the next time the coven came over for tea, believe me. I could go to other kids’ houses, but they weren’t ever supposed to come to mine. Mum just clucked and brushed them off though, and they got over it eventually.”

“I don’t know if I have anything to top that,” Harry chuckles, taking a break and shaking out his hand.

“It’s not about that. Just tell me a story. Something that makes you feel happy every time you think of it.”

Louis moves on from the mint to the rosemary, shaving the tiny leaves off by running the pads of his thumb and forefinger down each stem.

“Okaaaay,” Harry drawls. “So, Nick and Zayn – my two best mates – they both went away to study abroad in Germany for a few months during uni. I figured we’d just talk on our group chat and I’d come out to see them for a weekend.”

He picks up the pestle again and goes back to his work, crushing the mixture into the mortar with an effort that he knows will leave him sore tomorrow, a smile spreading across his face.

“But they made me video postcards, one a week, for the entire time that they were there. I’d get these huge files, just the two of them showing me the places they visited, acting like complete knobs all over that country. I knew we were close, but it just...the fact that they took the time to do that. They never forgot. Not one week. And we picked up right where we left off as soon as they got back.”

“It sounds like they really love you,” Louis murmurs.

Harry turns his head to look at him, catching Louis’s eyes flicking from his straining bicep up to his face.

“What do we do now?” he asks, acutely aware of the potential of their closeness all of a sudden. After Louis had left him on the street, Harry’d been embarrassed by his urgency to get him home and into bed. At this distance, watching Louis’s breathing become more and more shallow, he stops judging himself.

“We, um, we mix them together,” Louis stumbles. “Just pour the powder in here. Maybe one more nice memory?”

Harry uses both hands to lift the heavy, unfinished stone mortar and dumps its contents into Louis’s mixing bowl. The co-mingled scents hit them both at the same time, fresh and verdant and full of life. Harry breathes it in greedily, and it makes him feel powerful.

“The last time I saw you, you used your entire body to push me up against a wall,” he says, slow and methodical. Louis stops stirring the mixture and stares at him, mouth dropping slightly open. It only urges Harry on. “All I could see and smell and feel was you, and that made me happy. Kissing you, Louis. Your mouth on mine. That’s my most recent happy memory.”

“That, um...” Louis swallows, then lets out a tight laugh. “That’s going to change the effect of this a little bit.”

“Good,” Harry says, moving to stand in front of Louis, who rotates to follow him until his arse is pressed against the side of the table, dropping the wooden spoon into the bowl as he does.

He meets Louis’s bewildered eyes again and he knows – he’s still not sure that Harry has forgiven him, or _why._

Convincing him will be Harry’s pleasure.

He cups his jaw, and Louis moves into it, eyes fluttering closed.

They snap open a millisecond later.

“Harry, I promise, I’m not, I didn’t try to make you–”

Harry sweeps his fingers through the fringe falling over Louis’s eye to stop his babbling.

“Doesn’t take any magic to make me want you.”

He slots their lips together, firm and decided, feeling triumphant when Louis lets the tension out of his posture and sinks into it.

Once he lets go, Louis is desperate and tenacious, pawing blindly at Harry’s arms until he wraps them around him. The kiss becomes indecent quickly, Harry sending his tongue deep into Louis’s mouth, coaxing little groans out of him.

Louis’s hands roam across Harry’s broad, strong back, the sense combination of Louis’s touch and the silk of his shirt sending a wave of little lightning strikes to every affected inch of skin.

It all feels like one big exhale to Harry, after spending a week in anguished stasis. Louis is here, biting into his lower lip and then swiping his tongue across it. As unlikely as he is, Harry didn’t invent him. Magic is real, and he’s in his arms.

“We’re not…. _shit,”_ Louis attempts, with Harry sucking kisses along the long column of his throat. “There’s still one more step. _Oh,_ _fuck._ In the spell.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’m going to need that tonight,” Harry growls into his neck.

“Bed,” Louis croaks. “Bed, we have a bed. ‘s over there.”

Harry wastes no time tightening his grip on Louis and lifting him up into the air. Louis instinctively hugs his legs around Harry’s waist, reattaching their lips as soon as he’s secure.

Louis’s many hanging plants anoint them as Harry staggers to the mattress, the hard line of Louis’s cock barely constrained by his thin joggers, searing heat into Harry’s stomach.

The mattress is low to the ground, so there’s no delicately and romantically laying Louis down onto it. Harry loses his balance as he tries, sending them both into a fit of laughter when he lands on top of Louis in a heap.

Louis’s giggle fades into a wicked grin when he starts to work on Harry’s remaining buttons, Harry supporting himself on his hands to give him more room.

“You were trying to kill me with this, weren’t you?” Louis says, in an arch voice. “You might as well just not worn anything. I didn’t think I’d get to touch.”

Louis slips the blouse off of Harry’s shoulders and skates his hands down his naked chest, eliciting a shiver. Harry drops back down on top of him and rolls them onto their sides.

“You’re one to talk in these,” Harry says, finally palming Louis’s spectacular arse over his trousers and giving it a squeeze.

Louis smirks, then dives back in to kiss him again and again. And again. Harry gives in easily, having made his point.

His feet are technically still on the floor – Louis should really think about a box spring, if his back hurts so much – but Harry’s simultaneously ten feet above it. Once they’re on the bed, Louis subtly takes control. And Harry doesn’t feel patronized or pitied but taken care of. “Whatever you want, Harry,” Louis rasps in his ear, after tossing his jumper to the floor. “And nothing you don’t.”

The pace slows down to something exploratory and thorough, because, they suddenly and simultaneously realize, they have all night. They spend ages just making out and groping like teenagers – or, at least, how Harry assumes other teenagers behaved. His sexuality sometimes leaves Harry touch-starved, so he’s grateful that Louis just lets him take what he wants without pushing for something more. Feeling Louis’s skin feverish and smooth against his own is like drinking a tall glass of cold water on a 100-degree day, and Harry could waste hours doing this. Just admiring what he’s like.

“Lou,” Harry eventually whines between searing, slow kisses. “I’m ready, please.”

“Okay, love,” Louis soothes, smoothing Harry’s hair back tenderly. “I’ve got you.”

Harry’s jeans are an obstacle, but not an insurmountable one. The decided upon strategy is for Louis to hold the bottoms while Harry shimmies himself free, and for the first time maybe ever Harry feels like there’s space in a moment like this to be silly and imperfect. When Louis makes a big deal of his comparatively quick escape from his joggers, presenting his pants in a “tada!”-like fashion, Harry actually snort laughs.

It’s wonderful. It feels like home.

Then Louis is straddling Harry’s knees and tugging his boxer-briefs down and nothing’s funny anymore. Louis bows his head and closes his lips around Harry’s cock, and the dark, wet heat of his mouth makes Harry think of those little velvet pouches.

He has a bad habit of keeping his eyes closed during sex, but Harry doesn’t want to miss a moment of Louis, especially now, when he’s hovering over him on all fours, bobbing up and down with his pert bum in the air. He pulls off for a moment to breathe and has the nerve to actually _smirk_ at Harry, lips and chin shiny and slick. Harry doesn’t last long after that, coming into Louis’s mouth with a cry that he doesn’t even try to bottle.

And then he doesn’t even have to ask, though with Louis, the asking might be a little less daunting. Louis collapses down half on top of Harry and drapes an arm over his stomach, dropping kisses all over his chest and shoulder. Harry hums gratefully, absentmindedly running his hand through Louis’s hair and finding it, as he always does, easier to not freak out when he feels safe and not alone.

“I’ve got you,” Louis repeats, hooking his ankle over Harry’s. “Fuck, that was so good. The way you taste…”

As he recovers, Harry becomes more acutely aware of Louis’s still-hard cock resting on his thigh, pink and fat and terribly fucking pretty. Louis is still praising him when Harry reaches down and grasps it, which makes him stops mid-sentence and suck in a gulp of air through his teeth. As primed as he is, Louis still shoots an understanding look at Harry – a “Don’t trouble yourself, I’ll take care of it” look – and in this case, the empathy annoys him.

Harry says nothing in protest, just crawls down to the foot of the bed, settles himself between Louis’s legs, and licks the full length of the vein on the underside of his dick.

“Oh- _Ohhh,”_ Louis moans, tensing his abs and tangling his hands in Harry’s curls.

He keeps chasing that noise, doing both what he himself likes and following Louis’s whimpered cues. Harry selfishly kneads Louis’s meaty inner thighs with his hands as he takes him down, and when Louis’s breathing turns into panting, he swirls his tongue one last time around the tip, then sits back on his calves to watch. Louis’s eyes are screwed shut, his mouth open in a silent wail. Harry pulls on his cock, whispering little encouragements, until Louis shouts his name and paints Harry’s chest.

“Wait,” Louis says later, once they’ve cleaned each other up and Harry’s eyelids are beginning to droop closed. “You worked on the spell, you should get to enjoy it.”

“What?”

“C’mere,” Louis smiles. He gets out of bed again, padding naked across the flat. He’s at the table before he turns and realizes that Harry hasn’t moved. He’s just propped up on his elbow, watching him.

“Did you–? You absolute pervert, I’m not parading around in the nude for your amusement.”

“Aren’t you?” Harry laughs.

“Get your cute arse over here, will you? We have magic to finish.”

Harry groans dramatically, but he pulls himself to his feet nonetheless. It’s deja vu, standing next to Louis in the exact same position they were an hour ago, sans clothes but up two earth-shaking orgasms.

“Hold this open,” Louis instructs, handing a pouch to Harry.

He spoons the herb mixture into the bag until it’s full. They repeat the process with the other one, trading ironically shy glances over their work.

“There,” Louis says, as he ties off the second bag. “Spell complete.” He puts on exaggerated accent. “‘Yer a wizard, ‘arry.’”

“Oh...my god.”

“Too much?”

“I thought you hated those books.”

“The films were good,” Louis acquiesces.

All the films but _Prisoner of Azkaban_ were passable at best, but Harry is satiated and love drunk and not in the mood to start an argument over Steve Kloves.

“So what do we do with them?” Harry holds the bags up, one dangling on each thumb.

“Well,” Louis says, endeavoring to sound indifferent, “you hang them near your bed. It’ll give you a good night’s sleep and sweet dreams.”

“That easy, huh?”

“Yeah, so...I mean, it’ll work anywhere.”

“Anywhere?”

“Right, just...wherever you’re sleeping tonight,” Louis explains, avoiding Harry’s eyes. “You’d just hang it up there.”

Harry catches Louis under the chin with his forefinger, leaving one bag swinging between them. It still smells amazing, even as it mingles with their sweat and sex. He snaps his eyes up to Harry’s.

“Lewis.”

“Yeah?”

“Can I stay over? ”

“Yeah. Yes. God, yes, of course you can.”

“Good,” Harry grins. “So, do you have a place–?”

“I do,” Louis says, sounding so relieved and happy that Harry’s heart grows a size. “There are little hooks on either side. You’ll see them.”

Harry hangs the bags over the mattress while Louis blows out the real candles, then fetches them glasses of water that they drink at the sink. There’s no suggestion of doing anything else, even talking, as emotionally and physically spent as they both are. After consecutive trips to the toilet, they fall back into bed, Harry curling into Louis and tangling their legs together.

Harry can hear his heartbeat inside his chest, strong and brave and steady – a metronome that lulls him into sleep.

Just before he drops off, he feels Louis press a kiss to his forehead.

“Sweet dreams, Harry,” he whispers. And though Harry can’t find the consciousness to return the sentiment, he does snuggle closer.

It would be impossible to determine _why,_ exactly, Harry had the most reassuring, vivid, romantic dreams of his life that night, but the fact is that he did. In the days to come, he wouldn’t try to distinguish between spells and Louis. Their magic was undeniable – one and the same.


	8. Chapter 8

“Are you _sure_ they’re gonna like me?” Louis asks for the dozenth time as he and Harry round the corner to Nick and Zayn’s flat.

Harry sighs goodnaturedly and shifts the heavy paper bag of groceries that he’s cradling in his arms. He’s been officially dating the most likeable person on the planet for a fortnight, and Louis being actually nervous about meeting his friends only makes him more so.

“They’re so happy for me, I could be bringing the human manifestation of Brexit over for dinner and they’d still fawn all over him,” he says wryly. “The fact that you’re lovely is a bonus. Just prepare yourself for the gloating. There’s gonna be a lot of it.”

Louis frowns. “But they didn’t do anything.”

“For god’s sake, if you want to get on their good side, don’t say that to them.”

Harry comes to a stop in front the next to the last door and shoots Louis a goofy grin, pointing to the doorbell with his chin. Louis shakes his head fondly and presses it with his free hand. When he turns back to Harry, he has his lips pursed for a kiss. Louis meets him halfway for a peck, and that’s when Zayn swings open the door.

“ _Look at you two,”_ he practically squeals, in a very un-Zayn-like manner. Harry almost drops the bag in shock. “Grimmy! Harry and his _boyfriend_ are here.”

Nick pops his head out from behind the wall leading to his bedroom, his dark curls wet and alabaster shoulders bare.

“Awwww,” he croons, looking Louis up and down. “Aren’t you adorable?”

“Oh my god, go get dressed,” Harry yells. “You have all night to stare at us and be weird.”

“Indeed I do,” Nick says, then disappears again.

“Come in, come in,” Zayn commands, moving out of their way. “Haz, let me take that.”

Harry hands over the bag awkwardly then raises his eyebrows at Louis behind Zayn’s back. This is going to be a lot, but so has everything else. And the sooner Nick and Zayn get used to having Louis around, the sooner they’ll get back to their normal, irritating selves.

They follow Zayn into the kitchen where he starts unloading the makings of Harry’s signature penne ala vodka.

“Louis, this is Zayn. Zayn, this is Louis,” Harry says pointedly.

“Oh fuck, man, I’m sorry,” Zayn says, whirling around. He reaches out his hand to shake Louis’s. “It’s good to meet you. Thanks for coming ‘round.”

“Thanks for having me. I’ve heard so much about you.” Louis holds up the plastic bag that was on his arm. “Brought some red. Do you want me to open it or should we wait?”

“Hm, let’s save that for dinner.” Zayn takes the bag from him. “We have a couple of six-packs in there, and a pretty good scotch over on the bar. You boys can help yourselves. I’ll take your coats.”

They slip out of their jackets and hand them over to Zayn to hang up in their hall closet. Harry’s closer to the fridge, so he opens it and grabs a beer for himself.

“Zaynie?” he calls.

“No thanks, man, I’ve got a drink going already.”

“Okay – babe?”

Louis says a casual “Yeah, thanks,” at the same time Zayn turns and beams at them. Harry rolls his eyes and Louis chuckles.

“Sorry, lads,” Nick announces, when he joins them. “Harold, may I?” Harry tosses him a beer and then the bottle opener. Nick cracks his open and clinks it against Louis’s.

“Louis, I’m Nick. I don’t like to call myself Harry’s _mentor–”_

“Then don’t,” Harry interrupts.

“–But I can’t think of a better word for it,” Nick continues, undeterred.

“Well,” Louis says solemnly, “Thank you. For taking such good care of him. I happen to think he turned out pretty well.” He looks back at Harry over his shoulder and winks at him, and Harry feels inexpressibly fortunate.

He puts off dinner prep to tag along as Zayn and Nick give Louis “the tour.” He’s perfect, laughing at Nick’s over-practiced jokes and complimenting Zayn’s photography where it hangs on the walls. His mates are thrilled to have a new audience for all their tales of uni mishaps and triumphs, and Harry is satisfied to let them show off to their heart’s content.

But if they want to eat sometime tonight, Harry has to get back in the kitchen and get started on the sauce. He gives Louis a look when he excuses himself, which is returned with a happy nose scrunch and a nod. Harry still strains to listen to their conversation, as confident as he is in Louis’s ability to hold his own.

“Another one for you too, Nick?” Louis calls, his voice suddenly closer.

“Yeah, cheers.”

“Coming right up,” Louis murmurs, sidling up next to Harry.

“How’s it going out there?” he whispers.

“It’s fine, it’s fine. They’re a laugh. Just…” Louis trails off.

“Yeah?”

“Are they not together?”

Harry brings the knife down at the wrong angle and the garlic clove he’s chopping shoots across the room.

_“What?”_

“The way you talk about them, I just assumed...and they’re so in sync. It’s cute, really.”

“Nick and Zayn?” Harry sniffs a laugh. _“That_ is crazy. Those two were born to wingman each other.”

Louis presses his lips together and shrugs. “You would know. I just got a vibe. But I’m sure it’s nothing.”

He pops the caps off three fresh beers and leaves one on the counter for Harry.

“Nick and _Zayn,”_ Harry mutters to himself, shoulders shaking with laughter. He tosses the minced garlic into the heated oil, ducking away from the splash. Sure, he’d probably wondered if they were a couple the first time they all met, but it became immediately apparent that they were just best mates.

Inseparable best mates, neither of whom ever cared to maintain a long-term relationship with anybody else.

Harry rips open a package of pancetta, dumping the little pink cubes into the saucepan, then shakes some roasted red pepper flakes over the top. He turns his body to the side as he stirs, peering at the three of them over in the living room. Zayn and Nick aren’t even sitting next to each other, he notes smugly. But when Louis asks a question, they lock eyes in some silent communication before one of them answers. They set up each other’s punchlines so fluently, they ought to have a stage show.

Maybe “a vibe” means something more when your boyfriend is an empath.

Harry joins them while the sauce simmers, coming to sit between Louis’s legs on the floor and dipping a pita chip into the container of hummus on the coffee table in front of them.

“Has he made this for you yet?” Nick asks of Louis.

“My first time,” he answers, squeezing Harry’s shoulders with his knees.

“Oh, it’s a classic,” Nick raves. “One little bite and you’re gonna to want to marry him.”

Harry feels his cheeks blazing, but Nick can’t be stopped.

“I would have locked it down myself if he were even _remotely_ interested in me,” he adds, waving his hand dismissively.

Zayn snorts, and out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees him check his phone.

“You just like it because it has vodka in the name,” Harry says, trying to change the subject. “The alcohol burns off, you know.” Nick makes a face at him.

“Oh, that reminds me!” Louis interjects. “I’ve been experimenting with infusions. I brought some strawberry basil vodka with me if you want to give it a try. It goes down really smooth, so maybe as an after-dinner drink?”

“You,” Nick says, stretching from his chair to cheers Louis again, “can stay.”

Over a long, indulgent, boozy dinner, Harry’s third wheel status fades away. Conversation flows as easily as the wine – the two bottles he and Louis brought are finished off quickly, and everyone has seconds of Harry’s pasta. All Harry wishes is that Nick and Zayn could know how truly wonderful Louis is, _really_ know him. But his boyfriend _(boyfriend)_ had understandably wanted to get comfortable with them first. It’s enough to know that the door is open, that he won’t have to keep secrets from the most important people in his life. He gets lost imagining that near future until Louis grips Harry’s thigh under the table and gives him a syrupy, drunken smile.

“We’re just _so happy,”_ Nick stresses as they all clear the table together. “Harry deserves someone nice. _You’re_ nice.”

Louis exchanges an amused glance with Harry. It means the world to him that Louis isn’t freaked out by their enthusiasm.

“And like, it’s _okay_ that it took so long. Soooo long. Because it was worth it, right Haz? We told you, if you just–” Zayn puts his hands on his chest, his deep brown eyes becoming even more soulful. “–listen to your heart...everything will work out.”

“That’s what you gotta do,” Louis says with a smirk.

“I’ll finish, I’ll finish, you crazy kids,” Nick says, shooing them out of the kitchen. Then he gasps theatrically. _“Zayn._ We didn’t show Louis the balcony!”

“Okay, drunky,” his flatmate says. “I’m on it.” Harry frowns, noticing the warmth in it.

Zayn unlocks the sliding door then pulls it open, letting a gust of cool air into the warm embrace of the flat. He lets Louis and Harry step out ahead of him, fluttering their lips and shaking out their hands in the welcome but aggressive chill.

“Nice view,” Louis pronounces, surveying the area. “How long have you been here?”

“Couple years,” Zayn says, striking a match and lighting a cigarette. Harry has yet to meet someone who looks cooler lighting a cigarette.

“Where do you live, Louis?”

“Soho,” he answers, linking his arm with Harry’s and pulling him closer for warmth. “Just a little flat, nothing special.”

Harry smiles at the ground.

Zayn takes another drag, flicking a lock of shiny black hair out of his eyes, then exhales it out. “Harry’s is small too. So when you two move in together, you’ll need to find a bigger place.”

Harry abruptly starts coughing. Zayn turns his head away from him for his next exhale, regarding him with concern. “Alright?”

Harry holds his hand up and nods, clearing his throat.

“I guess we will,” Louis says, brushing his fingers across Harry’s forearm, then meeting his eyes. His crinkle at the corners and Harry remembers. _You were the first person I met in London that I could see any kind of future with._

“That was rude, I apologize,” Zayn says, stubbing out his cigarette on the railing. Harry’s eyes go wide. Has he suddenly become self-aware?

“Should’ve asked if I could smoke. Sorry, Haz.” He tosses the butt into a planter they use as a bin. “I’m gonna go see if Nick needs help. We’re the only people who live here and he still forgets where everything goes.”

Louis and Harry wait until he’s back in the flat, door slid shut again, before dissolving into laughter.

“Unbelievable. _Unbelievable,”_ Harry says, tugging at Louis’s chevron jumper.

“Well I like him,” Louis says simply. “Who needs boundaries, I always say.”

That sets Harry off again, but underneath his acute awareness of the ludicrousness of the whole situation runs a deep affection for Louis and the way he’s not letting any of this faze him. Harry pulls him in for a bear hug, kissing into his hair.

“Thank you,” Harry says to the top of his head once their giggles subside.

“For what?” Louis asks, resting his chin on Harry’s chest so he can look up at him.

“For being here. For being you.”

“You’re so welcome,” he says. “They’re right. You do deserve it…Now can we please go back inside? I’m fucking freezing.”

“Ah, there are the lovebirds!” Nick sings when they reenter the living room. He and Zayn are standing near the kitchen island, both wielding shot glasses. “Hope you don’t mind, but we got started without you.”

“Started on what?” Harry laughs, confused.

“You know, Louis, I don’t taste the strawberry or the basil, but it’s not bad,” Zayn says, taking another sip of the pink-ish liquid. “Maybe you didn’t leave it in for long enough?”

“Where did you–?” Louis’s eyes dart around the room until they lock on one spot. The bottle, where it sits on the island. “Oh, no.”

“Sorryyyy,” Nick pouts. “We went snooping. Found the vodka in your pocket.”

Louis turns to Harry, looking stricken.

“Wrong pocket.”

“What?”

_“Wrong pocket.”_

Nick dances over to Zayn in some sort of clumsy samba, then takes Zayn’s shot glass out of his hand and drops both of them on the floor. Miraculously, they don’t break. Next, without a single warning, he snakes one arm around Zayn’s waist, drips him low, and kisses him soundly.

“Ohhh, what the fuck,” Harry breathes.

“We may have a _slight_ problem,” Louis says, voice pitched an octave higher than usual.

But Zayn and Nick don’t seem to hear them. Zayn rakes his hands into Nick’s hair and licks greedily into his mouth, evidently not as shocked at this turn of events as Harry.

“I had a potion in my jacket too. Extremely concentrated. Bebe gave it to me to study; I was going to break down the elements, see how I could apply them differently.”

“Louis...what kind of potion did they drink?”

He closes his eyes and screws up his face, like he’s trying to will himself across town. “A love potion?”

 _“Louis!”_ Harry fists his hands into his hair. “What do we do? How do we stop it?”

“Nothing we _can_ do. We just have to ride it out.” Louis gestures to Nick and Zayn, still sloppily making out. “They seem happy enough!”

“Happy?! They’re going to be _mortified_ when they snap out of it. What if they try to have sex, oh my god. Should we lock them in their bedrooms?”

“That seems a little extreme.”

“Well, how long until it wears off?”

“The potency burns off really quickly, so I doubt we’ll see anything more graphic than this,” Louis explains. “The emotional stuff though...that could last a day or so.”

“Jesus. This...this could change everything. Ruin their friendship forever. Louis, what have we _done?”_

“Wellll….”

“Well? Well what?!” Harry asks, frenzied.

“Remember what I told you about magic? It can’t _make_ people do anything. Especially something they don’t want to do.”

Harry cocks out his hip and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah, and?”

“And this potion may be strong, but it still abides by the same rules. It’s just bringing something to the surface that was already there.”

It’s like Harry’s entire friendship with the two of them flashes before his eyes. The way Nick anticipates Zayn’s moods. That Zayn never comes home from a business trip without a box of Godiva Dark Chocolate Truffles from the duty-free shop. The inability of a single boyfriend of Zayn’s to earn Nick’s approval. How could he have missed it?

“So, really, it’s less of a love potion and more of a…”

“Truth serum,” Harry finishes. He can feel the color drain out of his face.

When he dares to look again, Zayn is upright, but Nick is whispering into his ear, his fingers curled lightly but possessively around Zayn’s neck. He can’t see most of Nick’s face, but Zayn’s expression is one of pure, uncomplicated happiness. He’s at his most handsome this way, not that Harry has the heart to tell him. He loves brooding too much.

Then Zayn laughs at something Nick says, and the sound of it rings so true to Harry that he almost tips over where he stands.

Both of them seem to have forgotten that Harry and Louis are even in the room.

Harry turns to Louis, hands open at his sides. “You mean...this whole time?”

“It would seem so, yes. Or at least part of it.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way. I’m sorry _they_ did,” Louis tips his head in the direction of the couple.

Fucking hell, Zayn and Nick are acting like a _couple._

It’s too weird, _it’s too fucking weird._ Obviously, if this is what makes them happy, Harry will get used to it. Eventually it won’t be an out-of-body experience watching his best mates snog each other’s faces off. But right now, it is, and he’d like to be present in this body for whatever Louis is planning on doing to it tonight.

“Excuse me,” he says loudly, startling Louis but failing to reach the other two. “I SAID EXCUSE ME, NICK AND ZAYN.”

They turn their heads towards him, eyes shiny and lips swollen, looking as fuzzy and out of it as Harry feels.

“Why don’t you come over here and join us, hm?” he says, his voice sounding like a children’s show presenter’s in his own head. “We can have a nice chat.”

Louis quickly jumps to follow Harry’s lead, settling on the arm of the sofa. Zayn and Nick walk into the living room slowly, holding hands so tightly that their knuckles are spotting white.

“Right there,” Harry says, helping them get settled on the sofa. He holds his arms out as he inches back, ready to put a wall of pillows between them should they get frisky again.

Louis snorts. “You look like that meme.”

“What meme?” Harry pouts.

“Chris Pratt with the, the...what do you call them? The little lads, you know.”

“Velociraptors?”

What the fuck is he on about.

“Those are scary,” Nick says, nodding seriously. “I like the other ones, the cute ones. Proper cute dinosaurs.” He looks to his left and practically melts. “Zayn’s cute.”

“This is like the bloody _Twilight Zone,”_ Harry mutters.

“It’s gonna be alright, Haz,” Louis soothes. Neither Nick nor Zayn seem to realize that they’re being talked about right in front of their faces. “And either way, we’re in it now.”

“Can we explain it? I know you didn’t want to tell them about you yet, but–”

Louis shakes his head. “They wouldn’t be able to retain it. They’re riding high on hormones. Surfing serotonin.” He puts a steady hand on Harry’s knee where he’s come to sit in the chair next to him. “But tomorrow we can.”

“I believe everything you’re saying, it’s just...a little hard for me to take in right now.”

“I get that, I get that,” Louis says. Then his eyes light up. “Actually, I think I can help you understand.”

Harry furrows his brow. “How?”

“Nothing crazy, don’t worry. Zayn?”

Zayn rips his eyes away from Nick’s face to look at Louis.

“I think I know what you’d like to talk about. Why don’t you tell us when you first fell for Nick here?”

Zayn closes his eyes, smiles a close-lipped smile, and hums, all at the same time. Harry looks to Louis, who gives him a reassuring nod.

“I had this shit job in a uni coffee shop,” he starts, speaking low and dreamily. “Only lasted for a few weeks. God, I hated it. One night, Nick brought his books up to visit me and revise, but my shift partner called out and we already closed so late. I had to do everything by myself, and I don’t move very fast anyway.”

Next to him, Nick’s wild grin turns soft.

“I didn’t realize until after the last rush that Nick was still there. He was still there. I was a mess, all sweaty and overwhelmed. But as soon as everyone left, he got up from his chair and helped me close, top to bottom. He even swept the floor. Saved me at least an hour. I was so grateful, I almost cried.”

He nudges Nick with his shoulder, looking bashfully down at his lap.

Harry knows this story. He remembers this story. It really happened.

“That’s really nice, Zayn,” Louis says gently. “That’s a really nice story.”

“I’d like to go next,” Nick announces.

Louis sits back in surprise then leans forward with a smile. “Okay, then. Tell us about Zayn.”

Harry may be holding his breath.

“Obviously half the school fancied him by the end of the first week. The other half hadn’t seen him yet,” Nick asides. “He’s got those eyes, the hair. Believe me, I noticed. But I didn’t realize how beautiful Zayn is until I saw his first student exhibition.”

Zayn snuggles into him, dropping his head onto Nick’s shoulder.

Harry catches Louis sneaking a look at him, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. All Harry can do is gape. He knows this story too.

“I didn’t know anything about photography. Still don’t, really. But I just stared and stared at those portraits. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. I just love how he sees other people, finds what’s beautiful and interesting about _them._ I love how he sees the world.”

“What d’you think, Haz?” Louis asks after a silent, meaningful beat.

All that ego, all that advice. Zayn and Nick acted bold, but they could have chatted up a thousand strangers to keep from having to put their hearts on the line. Both too bloody scared to actually try and be happy.

“I think you may have saved them from another few years of torture,” Harry says. “And that, in the future, all love potions should be clearly labeled.”


	9. Chapter 9

Harry taps the period key, then rolls his neck until he hears a satisfying crack.

There’s a pinch in his lower back, and a cramp in the meat of his thigh, but at least the chapter’s done. He’ll proofread it tomorrow morning, then send it over to Liam, who’s proven to not just be a welcome cheerleader but also a savvy editor with a keen eye and questions that help Harry excavate traits that his characters were previously hiding from him.

After sliding his laptop off of the tops of his legs and down to the hardwood floor, Harry stretches his arms above his head with a strenuous groan, then rolls onto his side, resting his head in his hand, his elbow cradled – to put it nicely – by one of Louis’s pointless floor pillows.

The next time his boyfriend hints at getting him a desk, he’s not going to pretend that he didn’t notice.

Hearing Harry stir, said boyfriend looks up from his measuring and tosses him a winning smile, eyes crinkling at the outer corners.

Harry holds his gaze as he settles on his back, adding another pillow underneath his head, then his arms crossed behind it. All the better to watch Louis work, his new favorite pastime.

Louis’s grin dials down but doesn’t fade, his awareness of Harry’s eyes on him making every action more deliberate, punctuated with a flourish. He doesn’t speak, but Harry imagines that he learns more about magic this way – how Louis puts every atom of himself into his spell-making, even when ease and confidence make way for frustration and strain. Harry’s seen him curse and mutter and laugh and pull strange faces, relating to herbs and tools as if they were human collaborators.

“They do as much as I do,” he told Harry once. “It’s important we get on.”

The thought curled up on Harry’s chest and stayed there the whole day – a soft, insistent pet.

Each day, a little bit more of Louis makes it into Harry’s flat, and vice versa. Though he suspects Sadie isn’t thrilled by all aspects of their arrangement, she’s contented to the point of kitty ecstasy whenever Louis is over, butting her head over and over into his shin or the back of his hand until he spoils her with attention and resolutely ignores Harry when he insists that Louis has “broken” his cat.

Every stray sock and extra coffee mug and flirty purr activates Harry’s domesticity centers, once so dormant, he thought they were fully dead. Each night (and some mornings before Louis has to open _and_ the occasional afternoon when he can sneak away for an extra-long break), cracks Harry open a little further, the trust Louis established from the beginning igniting into an unwavering flame.

He’s only just stopped regularly assuring Louis that his desire for him isn’t going anywhere. Wanting Louis is now a fact of Harry’s life, a delicious background noise that gets louder whenever he’s in the room and sometimes even when he isn’t.

Still, he feels sturdier in his skin to hear Louis respond, over and over, that it wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter if Harry changed his mind.

“I’m in this, baby,” Louis rasped against the shell of Harry’s ear, the irony of his fingers digging into the hip crease of Harry’s jeans when they’re on this topic not lost on either one of them. “I’m the luckiest guy in the whole fucking world, love.”

So, yeah, obviously, the sex is mindblowing. Even though Harry still hits roadblocks. Even though he has and will always have different needs than most other people. Louis pays attention, and not just when Harry is speaking.

Sometimes that hot coil of need inside of him begs for Louis to painstakingly take Harry apart until he cries, whispering beautiful nonsense while he wrings every last piece of Harry out. Other times, it asks for Louis to hold Harry for hours, without any next step in mind. When Louis plasters himself to Harry’s back, his half-hard cock nestled against the crack of Harry’s arse, and just breathes with him, Harry can feel his energy coffers being refilled, like the hero in a video game.

And the few times when the panic rises inside him like a cresting wave – when Harry feels needy and self-conscious, and tries to pull away, Louis just hugs him tighter, playing with Harry’s fingers and stroking his calf with the sole of his foot until Harry’s heartbeat stops pounding in his ears.

It’s good.

Maybe he does deserve this.

He’s working on feeling like he deserves this.

“See, if Sadie were here,” Harry reasons from the floor, “she would have batted that little bottle right onto the ground. With her little paw.”

Louis tosses another look over his shoulder, this one wry.

“If this is your strategy for convincing me to get a cat, it could use some work.”

“I just miss her,” Harry whines, making little flutter kicks with his feet. “And she misses me. You more, maybe, the traitor…”

“You love it.”

“I do,” Harry says sincerely, addressing the ceiling. It’s pockmarked in different colors – some of Louis’s failed experiments.

“All the more reason why I can’t.”

“And here we go again. What arbitrary rule are we breaking now?”

“It’s policy,” Louis states, adding a garnish of dried rose petals to the mason jar in front of him. “And suspicious, apparently. We’re too good with animals to own them.”

 _“Policy._ You know what I think, Lou? The ancient guy who made this all up? Not a cat person. Or a dog person. Just a _sad,_ empty person, without any love in his life. And because of his preference – as wrong as it is – he’s made the rest of you suffer.”

Louis bites the inside of his mouth to keep from smiling. It only urges Harry on.

“So you’ll be the one person in this city with a well-behaved cat, so what? Here’s the real truth of being human: Nobody even notices or _cares_ what anyone else is doing. They’re too obsessed with themselves. Your coven’s so smart, but they haven’t realized _that?”_ He pushes himself up to sit cross-legged on the floor. “Come on, Lou. Sadie needs a friend!”

“She does not,” Louis counters. Harry scoffs.

“Empath, remember?” he continues. “Your princess is perfectly happy being the belle of the ball, trust me.”

“We can test your theory,” Harry says. “When Nick and Zayn bring over the dog.”

Louis finishes screwing on the mason jar lid, trapping all its natural ingredients inside. If Harry didn’t know any better, he’d think Louis were designing centerpieces for a rustic bridal shower.

“I’m sorry, we’re going to need the judge’s ruling on that,” he turns to face Harry, tapping his ear with his index finger. “Nick and Zayn are adopting a _dog?”_

“Are you serious? They won’t stop talking about ‘sharing their home’ – I’m surprised they haven’t gone shopping for surrogates yet.”

“Wow, when they commit, they _commit.”_

“Making up for lost time, I guess. They’ve been partners for years, if you think about it. It’s just...not platonic anymore.” Harry pushes himself to his feet and wanders over to Louis on bare feet.

“No, it definitely is not. And I thought _we_ were gross.”

“It’s sweet!” Harry runs a hand through his hair and shakes out his curls. “Still weird, but sweet.”

Louis brushes his palms together, clearing away the material evidence of his work. He’ll still smell like an English garden for the rest of the day, his own spicy scent layered underneath. If he could bottle it – _Essence of Louis_ – Harry would make a fortune. But he’d rather keep it to himself.

“Harry,” Louis says, reaching for Harry, then linking his hands behind his lower back. “I know it wasn’t how we planned, but I’m so happy that we’re not keeping any secrets from your mates. I want my friends to know you too. Well...friend.”

Harry grazes the constellation of freckles on Louis’s cheek with the pad of his thumb and marvels, not for the first time, that he could have ever thought him ordinary.

“Will you come to lunch with me and Bebe today? I didn’t properly introduce you the last time, and I really want to do that.”

He may be new to all of this, but even Harry can understand that Louis has a decision to make. And it’s one he’s been avoiding, safe in the bubble of their new relationship. Harry knows from experience that you can’t hide forever – not if you want more for yourself, not if you want to move forward.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, tugging him closer. “I’m so ready.”

“I’d love to meet her, Louis. Thank you.”

*****

Louis chooses a cavernous taproom with tall ceilings and secluded booths of which Bebe appears to approve. Shrugging off the same puffer coat she was wearing the first time Harry saw her, she surveys the space and nods before leaning in to kiss Louis and then Harry on the cheek.

“Was the Batcave all booked up?” she smirks.

They’re seated all the way in the back, their waiter more than yelling distance away. They can speak as freely as they want and still enjoy some truffle parm chips. It’s ideal.

“Nah, but their burger is crap,” Louis jokes, still holding Harry’s hand. “Thanks for meeting us.”

“My pleasure,” she says, dropping into the booth. Harry and Louis slide in across from her. “Harry, it’s lovely to see you again.”

“You too, Be–”

“Harry is my boyfriend,” Louis interrupts, presenting their linked hands. “We’re together.”

“I figured,” Bebe says after a beat, cracking open the leather-bound draft list and inspecting the contents. “I’m in the mood for an amber, I think. What are you boys getting?”

Louis sneaks a glance at Harry that’s at once sheepish and silently apologetic.

“I like a nice sour,” Harry pipes up again, amused. “Something with a kick to it.”

“Oooh, good choice,” Bebe answers, narrowing her eyes and clinking her water glass against his. “Your man has taste, Lou.”

“Hang on a minute. Can we back up, please? _How?”_

Bebe sighs and folds her hands on the table in front of her.

“Did I know that the guy who was hanging all over you the first time we met was your date? You were all disheveled and pink. And then, Lewis, you dropped off the face of the earth for a few weeks. I know a honeymoon period when I see one, and _you_ are not as mysterious as you think.”

Louis leans back in the booth and frowns, a little confused wrinkle taking shape between his eyebrows. Harry presses his lips together in an effort not to smile.

“Oh come on, don’t be like that. I’m happy for you. I’m _thrilled._ Why wouldn’t I be? I’m the one who’s been trying to set you up with every pretty witch I know. The ones that wouldn’t bore you to death with their illustrious family histories, anyway.”

“But ‘m not–”

“Harry’s not–”

Bebe smiles beatifically at them. “I know that too. Obviously.”

Harry sits up a little straighter, trying to determine which of his attributes gives him away as a boring, non-magical pleeb.

“It’s 2019! Do you honestly think I give a shit that you’re with someone who doesn’t practice?” She unrolls the utensils from her napkin and drapes it over her lap. “God, if you think _that’s_ scandalous, I have stories that would fuck you up permanently.”

Then Louis clears his throat loudly, because their waiter is approaching. Harry makes a mental note to ask Bebe for those stories later. Maybe the second time they hang out.

They settle into small talk after they get their beers, Louis finally relaxing into Bebe’s almost comatose nonchalance. Apparently an avid reader, she wants to know all about Harry’s work. In turn, she and Louis regale him with stories of their first few months spending time together in London, including the mandatory coven meetings that they both agree are very boring and need better snacks. (“We’ve been around for centuries and we’re drinking instant coffee?” Bebe complains. “It’s like, get a Keurig, Frederick.”)

“So why do you do it?” Harry asks, then pushes a truffle chip into his mouth with one finger.

“What do you mean?” Louis counters.

“It’s just, like...neither of you _like_ participating, obviously. So what makes it worth it? What do you actually get out of it?”

He watches Bebe and Louis share a look that morphs into something different when they realize simultaneously that neither of them can name a benefit from off the top of their heads.

“It’s a community,” Bebe tries, unconvincingly. “There’s a sharing element, I guess. People you can go to if you need advice or help.”

“You do that then?”

She snaps her mouth shut, then takes another drink.

“And I know for a fact that Lou, you haven’t. But those ladies back home, you trusted them.”

“I did, because I knew them. And they were good to Mum.”

“Right. Because _that_ was an actual community, not a bunch of people forced to sit in a room with each other. So...listen, I know I’m talking completely out of turn and I literally just found out that you people existed, but from here? From an outsider’s perspective? You’re putting all of this effort into conforming to a group that’s not doing anything for _you.”_

He could be entirely full of shit, but fuck it. Louis needs to start thinking about himself, about what makes _him_ happy. There’s no grand reward for doing “the right thing,” when all that means is falling into line and not stirring the pot. The old ways aren’t always the best ones.

“I know it’s ancient and powerful and all that, but is it really?” Harry continues, impassioned. “Because to me it just sounds like a bunch of pointless bureaucracy and older people telling you what to do.”

“I’d say that pretty much covers it,” Bebe concedes.

“We’ve been dating, openly. And they haven’t evicted you or taken your job. Haven’t tried to disappear me.” Harry nudges him with his elbow, but Louis can only manage a weak smile. “If a lecture is the worst thing that’s going to happen, then, just...don’t show up for it. You don’t have to play their game.”

“I _had_ hoped that it would change,” Bebe muses. “If Louis came in and some other people our age, maybe we could push them a little. Modernize the place. But I don’t think recruitment has been going so well. And I know of some people – some really dope, talented witches – who are just rejecting the formal coven thing entirely.”

“Are they?” Louis pushes his neglected breakfast burger to the side so he can lean across the table in interest.

“Mmhm. There’s a really loose structure so you know you have support, but they’re _way_ liberal. That movement, it’s growing really quickly. But you were never going to hear that from Frederick or from anybody on the board. I think they’re freaked out. They’re not pulling big numbers anymore, and eventually, they’re all gonna just die out.”

She shrugs and pops two chips into her mouth.

“Millennials killed the coven industry,” Harry mutters.

Louis and Bebe ignore his magnificent joke, but he forgives them. They’re on the verge of a breakthrough.

“I had no idea you were unhappy,” Louis says.

“Oh, you know me,” she says breezily, “I’m adaptable. I just sort of do what I want anyway. But it could be great, to just be free. Really free...” She trails off.

Louis turns to solicit Harry with big, blue eyes. “Is it okay if I…?”

Harry hooks their pinkies together under the table and then releases him. “Yeah.”

“That night we saw you, I had a complete meltdown. About all of it,” Louis explains, reclaiming Harry’s hand. “Harry...I almost lost him. And he’s absolutely right! What would I have been doing it for? For some old institution that doesn’t care about me or you or any of us?”

He pauses. Harry and Bebe sense that he needs the space, so they give it to him.

“I feel _guilty,_ actually. Not just for how I hurt you, Haz, but...we should be helping people. Lots of people. Why am I learning all these spells if we’re just going to keep hoarding them for ourselves? I’m not afraid of telling people who I am, and I don’t want to be a part of that anymore. I always promised myself that I would make Mum proud, that I’d live for the both of us. And she never let anyone – _anyone_ – tell her how to use her magic.”

“I wish I’d gotten to meet her,” Bebe says.

“Me too,” Harry whispers.

“No one really cared because we were all the way out in Donny, but it was the town’s open secret,” Louis continues. “If you’ve got a little problem, go see Jay Deakin, and she’ll sort you right out. Anytime she had someone ‘for tea–’” He makes air-quotes with the fingers of his free hand. “–they’d leave with a little bag or jar of something. Summer colds, broken hearts, stubborn plants...Mum did it all. And she never took any money.”

“That’s so amazing, Lou,” Harry says. “She was amazing.”

“And guess what?” Louis says with a cold laugh. “Those old birds weren’t always pleased about it, but the world didn’t end. In fact, _nothing_ happened. So I’m done being scared. If Mum ever was, she just pushed right through it.”

“Louis Tomlinson,” Bebe says, eyebrows arching and a hint of conspiracy in her tone, “are we going rogue?”

How lucky Louis is to have this wonderful, natural gift that most people couldn’t even dream of. Yet, Harry can’t shake the chill of the thought that, if he’d done everything those powers that be told him to do, he would be alone with it, maybe forever.

Louis wordlessly checks in with him.

Harry nods and squeezes his hand. “This is your call, babe,” he says, voice low and just for him. “I’m here with you no matter what. So tell me, yeah?” Harry folds his leg onto the bench so he can face Louis completely. “Tell me exactly what you’re thinking.”

The crinkle of worry returns, and Louis’s hand goes slack in his. “Now? Like, right now? Are you sure?”

Harry means it, truly. What Louis does is entirely up to him. He’ll gladly listen to years worth of gripes about his stodgy old coven if that’s what Louis chooses. What he couldn’t live with is Louis making a major life decision just because he thinks it’s what Harry wants. So, brutal truth it is.

“Yep,” Harry says, popping the “p.” “I’m invoking my boyfriend privileges. You have to tell me.”

Louis clears his throat and drops his chin, closing his eyes for a few seconds. Harry holds his breath, caught up in a moment he hadn’t thought to be quite so serious. His pulse beats against his temple, and he has no idea what Louis is about to say.

Finally, slowly, Louis raises his chin and then lifts Harry’s hand to his lips, dropping a kiss on his knuckles and holding steady eye contact throughout. It’s unmistakably intimate. Bebe is sitting a foot away from them. If those lips belonged to anyone else, Harry would squirm away. Make up some kind of excuse to go to the toilet and then maybe sneak out.

But he’s glued to the silence, captivated by the way can Louis change the energy of the entire room with just a few small movements. It’s delicious, agonizing.

“I’m thinking...” Louis says, thickly. “What I’m thinking, right now, Harry, is that I’m very, very in love with you.”

The edge of apprehension in his voice throws Harry almost as much as the declaration itself. But Louis has told him before: The closer that they become, the more he has to rely on the ordinary way of reading Harry’s moods, which is a nifty relationship defense mechanism.

Louis is studying him now, raw and hopeful. A man waiting for a pardon. He answered the question anyway, even though he wasn’t – isn’t – sure that Harry would say it back.

“What?” Harry manages, in pure shock. The air feels thinner when it reaches his lungs, like they’re standing together on top of a mountain.

“If you’re not there yet, it’s alright. I didn’t say it to pressure you. But...I made you a promise, and I’m going to keep it. I know there are other things I have to deal with and I will. But when you asked, that was it. That was the thought in my head. I’m not _falling_ in love with you, Haz, I’m already there.”

“Lou,” Harry exhales, wrapping his arms around Louis’s neck and pulling him hard and close. The contact, Louis’s heartbeat thumping against his own chest – it grounds him. It gives him the strength to match Louis’s honesty.

He pulls back, gripping the back of Louis’s neck with one hand and pressing their foreheads together.

“I love you, too,” he says, his eyes filling up. “So much, Lou. And I didn’t know if I could ever…” He laughs wetly. Louis smiles, and swipes a tear away with his thumb. “So, yeah.”

“Aw,” Bebe pouts. They look over to find her pretending to snap a picture of them with an invisible camera. “You guys are disgusting.”

Embarrassed, stunned, thrilled to the tips of his toes, Harry collapses into Louis’s chest in laughter. Louis folds himself on top of Harry, similarly giddy.

These aren’t emotions Harry wants to control. He wants to let them run wild, jump fences, take him places he’s never been before.

It’s so much, much more than either of them bargained for out of a casual lunch. Bebe, a total star in Harry’s opinion, patiently waits for Harry and Louis to collect themselves, only mildly ridiculing them for being overwrought messes in public.

“We take your feedback seriously, and are trying to improve,” Louis eventually says, in an automated tone that sets Harry off again. “In the meantime, Bebe...you’re the one with the connections. So where do we find a hip, anarchist coven to call our very own?”


	10. Epilogue

“He’s gonna eat all the canapés,” Louis whispers fiercely. “Harry, tell Niall to stop eating all the canapés.”

Harry peers around Louis’s body – packed tightly as it is into an impeccably tailored dark grey suit – to see his publisher holding a burrata bruschetta in each hand and balancing a half-drunk glass of champagne in the crook of his elbow.

“He’s technically my boss and he paid for them, so, unfortunately…”

Louis makes an exasperated noise in the back of his throat.

“You’re not supposed to be nervous. I am,” Harry says into his ear. “Remember? It’s _my_ career and fledging reputation on the line?”

“Exactly! It’s your night, and it should be perfect. I don’t want it ruined by a bunch of boozed-up hipster writers drinking on empty stomachs.”

He doesn’t keep much from Louis, but one of the few secrets Harry will hold onto as long as he can is that he finds it pretty adorable when his boyfriend gets a little bit stroppy.

“There’s a lot more in the back, love,” he says, sliding a placating hand up and down Louis’s back. “And if there’s one thing I can confidently say about Niall Horan, it’s that he would sooner streak through this place than let a party run out of food.”

“Fine,” Louis mutters.

“C’mere, let me look at you.”

Harry takes a light hold of one of Louis’s lapels and pulls on it until they’re facing each other. His eyes roam down Louis’s body and then back up to his face. They’ve been together a year, but Louis’s cheeks and the tips of his ears still turn a pretty shade of pink when Harry’s eyes are on him like this. Harry hopes they never stop.

“You look good,” he says, unnecessarily straightening Louis’s skinny black tie, the toes of their shiny black dress shoes touching. (They’re not quite matching, but close enough.)

“I better,” Louis fake-complains. “Since, according to you, I’m just the arm candy tonight.”

“Mmhmm,” Harry smiles wickedly, brushing imaginary lint off of the shoulders of Louis’s jacket. “It’s working too. They’re all jealous.” He presses his lips to Louis’s forehead so it’s absolutely clear that he’s kidding. About the arm candy thing, not people being jealous. He notices that – the way strangers look at them, wistful and envious – everywhere they go. “I can tell.”

“It’s the man of the hour!” Niall announces himself in all his Irish extroversion and a hand clapped on Harry’s back. He’s still chewing a bruschetta.

“Niall,” Harry says warmly, holding out his hand to shake. “This is…” He looks around the event space, decorated in yellow string lights and blown up posters of his novel’s cover art – a simple floral still life taken by Zayn and shaded elegantly by an visual artist. “...I don’t know how to thank you.”

Niall makes a face. “Get outta here. It’s my job, Harold. We’re just proud to have ya.”

Louis purposely falls into Harry’s side, beaming up at him.

“Though,” Niall sing-songs, “You still owe me a rematch. When are we getting back out there, eh?”

Harry shares a panicked look with Louis. He’s running out of excuses for declining Niall’s many golf invitations. Louis could get him sorted, but he can’t decide if his publisher wants him to be better or worse than he was the last time. So he’d rather just avoid the trap entirely.

“I would _love_ that, I really would...But we’re still so busy with the move, you know? And you booked all those signings for me...” Harry spots Shawn wandering nearby, catches his eye and waves him over. “Tell you what, why don’t you come over? We’ll cook you both dinner, how about that?”

Zayn was right; they _did_ need a bigger place. It had taken them weeks to find the perfect flat, a spacious two-bedroom with an abundance of natural light and more than enough room for Harry to have an actual writing desk (vintage, a miraculous thrifting find), storage and surfaces for Louis to keep advancing in his own work – somewhat discreetly – and to host some low-key, wine-fueled meetings for Bebe and their new avant garde sort-of coven. Plus, an extravagant cat tree for Sadie – a present from her self-appointed godfathers, Nick and Zayn.

“Ooh, a double date?” Niall throws an arm around Shawn’s shoulders and Harry notes, yet again, what a cute couple they make. “You in, Shawny?”

“Definitely,” Shawn grins, looking even more boyish than usual.

“Alright, fellas,” Niall raises his glass. “It’s settled. And I think it’s time to open the doors, what d’ya say?”

Harry pulls in a heavy breath and blows it out. When he finished _Ever Since New York,_ Nick and Zayn took him out for beers and his mother sent him a card. Flicker Publishing gave _Running With the Thieves_ a prime spot in its release schedule and mounted a substantial campaign, especially considering the company’s size. Niall and Liam have told Harry over and over again how much they believe in the book, that they expect its wide scope to appeal to a huge subset of readers. Putting all this money and energy behind it was their decision. But no matter how many times Liam references “the team,” Harry still feels the weight of everything himself. It’s a good kind of pressure, though. It’s nice to matter.

“Yeah,” he says, taking Louis’s hand for support. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

It’s a pretty good party if he says so himself. There’s a steady flow of guests in and out, not just friends and family, but other Flicker authors and clients of Liam’s firm, a few literary journalists and bloggers, and some early readers who’d gotten the galley and, apparently, as each one tells Harry, adored it.

Harry feels like a little foosball man, getting pulled in a different direction every few minutes by either Niall or Liam, who want him to meet someone. The names and titles are a blur; Harry’s face starts to ache from smiling. He resorts to gulping down champagne on those short walks across the room and wishes he’d followed Niall’s lead and eaten _before_ they invited everyone in.

He loves every second of it.

But the best part of all is that every time Harry stretches his neck to search the crowd for Louis, he finds him – laughing with Bebe, listening patiently while Nick and Zayn tag-team a story, side-eyeing someone with Gemma. (As he suspected, those two together are a sarcastic force to be reckoned with.) Most of the time, Louis is either already looking at him or quickly senses Harry and immediately meets his gaze.

Harry doesn’t regret his years of being single; he never will. But he was wrong, those times he assumed that being with someone meant giving up some of yourself. Knowing that Louis will always have his back gives him the courage to take risks, to find out what he’s capable of. He’s more himself than ever, and he can tell that other people in his life have noticed.

“Hi, Mum,” he says, finding her at the dessert station and leaning in to give another hug. “Are you having a nice time?”

“Oh, my darling,” she exclaims, squeezing him. “This is lovely. You should be so proud of yourself.”

He pulls back and runs his hand through his hair. “I am, actually, yeah.”

“Good. Your great-grandfather would be too, you know.”

“I just hope I did him justice. I wish I could thank him.”

“Oh, love,” Anne says, laying a hand on the side of his face. “Memorializing him like that? That’s all the thanks he’d want.”

“Can I cut in?” Louis appears, holding a fresh glass of champagne for Harry and kissing Anne on the cheek.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Harry sighs, putting his empty on the tray of a passing waiter.

“I know.”

“I hear Harry’s not the only one to congratulate,” Anne says mischievously. “Business is good?”

Louis lights up. “Yeah, yeah, it is. We’re getting so many orders that I quit my day job last month.”

“I had no idea Etsy could be so lucrative!”

 _It is when two honest-to-god witches are selling holistic products that actually do what it says on the tin,_ Harry thinks.

“Me neither, to be honest,” Louis confesses. “It was all Bebe’s idea, but I think this is a career.”

“I’m so proud of both you,” she says, with affection. “Just keep taking care of each other.”

Harry smiles down at Louis. “We will.”

An insistent tapping of a fork against a water glass demands their attention, and they are turn to the center of the room, where Liam is standing, looking as groomed and dapper as ever.

“Everybody? Everybody, can I have your attention for just a minute?”

The din of conversation in the room dies gradually down and Shawn pauses the mood-setting music.

“Thanks,” Liam continues, grinning widely. “It’s my pleasure to be here to help introduce you to _Running With the Thieves,_ the second novel by Mr. Harry Styles–” He pauses for applause, and a few hoots from Niall. “–And the first one to be available in bookstores everywhere.”

“I work with a lot of up-and-coming writers, but I knew Harry was special right away. He knew _exactly_ who he was, and how many of us can say that about ourselves in our 20s?”

The crowd laughs, and Harry shifts his weight, blushing under the attention.

“He poured everything he had into this book. I know, I was there. It’s moving and expansive and unique, and I’m just so thrilled that it’s out in the world now for all of you to enjoy. So let’s all raise our glasses, please...” The whole room does as they’re told. “And toast Harry’s vision and hard work.”

The tinkling sound of glass on glass echoes around the space; Anne touches hers to Louis’s and Harry’s, looking like she’s about to burst.

“Harry, why don’t you come up and say a few words?” Liam calls.

Louis puts his palm on Harry’s lower back and gives him a gentle push. Harry tugs on the bottom of his suit jacket – the same velvet-trimmed one he wore on their first dinner date – as he strolls into the space the crowd has left around Liam.

Liam envelopes him in a big hug and Harry congratulates himself again for having the good sense to have picked the kindest, most supportive agent in London.

When Liam lets him go, Harry takes moment to survey the room, all the familiar and new faces looking back at him expectantly. He clears his throat before his emotions render him unable to say anything remotely articulate.

“Um, hello, everyone,” he starts, his slow drawl and casual greeting inciting a few good-natured laughs. “Thank you all so much for coming. It really means a lot to me. My mum and my sister are here. My best mates, they’re right over there. Some of my professors even, which is mad.”

Inevitably as ever, his eyes find Louis’s. Louis winks at him, and Harry stands taller.

“Liam says that I’m special, but the truth is that that doesn’t come from me. All of us...we all have something in us – a really good story, maybe, and even the ability to tell it. What makes the difference is having people who _believe_ in you. Who believe that you can. Liam, the whole team at Flicker, my family and teachers and friends. All of you put your faith in me, and I will forever appreciate you.”

He pauses, trying to find the words for this next part. “There are two people in particular that I want to acknowledge right now. They’re the same two people _Running With the Thieves_ is dedicated to, so if you’ve opened your copy, you may know what I’m about to say.”

His eyes start to sting. He will not cry in front of that hardass from _The Independent._

“Without my great-grandfather’s letters – and his devotion to the men he served with – there would be no book. I hope that wherever he is now, he knows how much I’ll always look up to him, and that he’s not angry about any of those _tiny,_ little edits I made to his life story. It’s poetic license, Pop,” he says, looking to the ceiling.

A gentle laugh rolls through the room. Anne dabs the inner corners of her eyes with a tissue.

“And finally, my love. My Louis.”

He sees Louis bite down on his lip, chin trembling, and Harry loses the fight against his own tears.

“I won’t say that I couldn’t have written this novel without you. I can’t. Because before I knew you, work was all I knew how to do. I’d stopped _expecting_ magic. Stopped looking for it. I couldn’t recognize it where it already was in my own life. And then I met you, and everything changed.”

Louis mouths a silent “I love you,” and Harry _will_ get through this, he will.

“You gave me that wonder back, and you took away my shame. So, thank you. Thank you for reminding me that I also get to make my own stories. I plan on spending the rest of my life showing you how grateful I am.”

He raises his glass with an unsteady hand and the room explodes into whoops and cheers. Heart racing with adrenaline, Harry strides back across the room to Louis, deposits his glass on the dessert table, takes his face between his hands, and kisses him urgently, salty tears on both of their lips.

Whether his writing process is any different or not is yet to be determined, but otherwise, Louis, has cured Harry of his obsession with the finish line. No longer is everything he does a means to end, not when the journey itself is _this_ good.

“The rest of your life, huh?” Louis whispers roughly, nudging his nose against Harry’s.

Maybe it was reckless, to say that in front of a roomful of people. But it felt _good,_ and Harry knows without a doubt that he wants to do it again. He wants to stand in front of everyone they love and slide a ring onto Louis’s finger, so that the whole world knows. _Mine._

Someday.

“Is that okay?”

Louis releases a shaky breath, then seals their lips together again.

“Yeah, Curly,” he says when they finally break apart. “It’s okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, please consider leaving kudos or a comment. <3 The Tumblr post is [here.](https://a-brighter-yellow.tumblr.com/post/185083091343/call-it-true-by-abrighteryellow-49kexplicit)


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